


Losing Your Memory

by usuallysunny



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Amnesiac Chloe, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Memory Loss, Minor - Dan/Chloe, Post-Season/Series 05, Undercover as Married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:48:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26566813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usuallysunny/pseuds/usuallysunny
Summary: Lucifer makes a deal with his father to save Chloe's life.It works. The only problem is, it's nothisDetective who comes back.Now Lucifer must fight for a woman he's only just won... a woman who doesn't remember loving him.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Comments: 235
Kudos: 777





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have a couple of GoT WIPs so probably shouldn't be starting another story, but Lucifer has captured my heart! And the fandom's comments on my last two oneshots were so lovely, I thought I'd try my hand at a multistory. This starts off with some fluff and descends into angst city... think The Vow but make it Lucifer?? Anyway, enjoy!

"Give me a minute, woman," Lucifer grunted sleepily, "I'm an old man."

He felt the curve of the Detective's smile against his throat.

"You're immortal."

"Yes well, you can wear even the devil out," he hummed, his mind racing to catch up with his body which was very much stirring to life, "my congratulations to you, Detective."

Her lips twitched against his skin again, a little husky laugh rumbling from her throat, and _yes,_ he thought—that was a sound he would happily wake up to every morning for the rest of eternity.

Morning light streamed in through his window. He blinked to life, his hands drifting to her hips. Her own hands were anchored on his bare chest, soft and warm, and her hair fell like a honey curtain between them. She was beautiful. Beautiful and strong and _his_. It still didn’t seem real.

"I didn't _really_ wear you out, did I?"

Lucifer grinned lazily.

"What was it I said you had before?" he quirked a brow, his expression teasing and dark, "moves that could make the devil blush? Turns out I was right."

Chloe blushed herself, a lovely red flush creeping up her neck.

"Coming from you, I guess that's a compliment."

Lucifer hummed, his hands rising to cup her cheeks. His thumbs swept across her cheekbones as he brought her down for a kiss.

"It certainly is," he purred against her before he pressed his lips to hers.

He opened his mouth as he felt her tongue sweep across his bottom lip. It tangled with his, hot and slippery slick, and he swallowed her breathy moan. His hands trailed down her body again, resting on her ass. He gave it a squeeze as she rolled her hips on top of him. He gave the white shirt she was wearing— _his shirt_ —a little tug and his arousal stirred hot in his blood.

It _did_ something to him, seeing her wear his clothes.

His tongue swept against hers again, her mouth tasting of sweetness and Chloe and… _mint?_ He drew back, arching a brow.

"Did you get up early to brush your teeth?" he asked, deadpan.

Chloe flushed again, rolling her bottom lip between her teeth. He bit back a groan. _That_ did something to him too.

"Maybe."

"Aren't we a little past that?" he husked because they _were—_ they had seen each other, inside and out, all the good, the bad and the ugly, "you've seen my devil face and my bloody _wings_ … you think I care about your morning breath?"

His voice was lined with amusement but she wasn't laughing.

"I know we're not normal," she said gently, "but sometimes, it's nice to pretend that we are. You know, that I'm just a normal woman waking up in the arms of her normal boyfriend."

A scoff rumbled from his chest.

"I'm too old to be someone's boyfriend." 

He had tried that once with Eve and it hadn't exactly stuck. 

"Tough," she quipped, her lips fixing into a playful pout, "because that's what you are."

"Is that right?"

"Mmhm," she hummed, "and right now, I would very much like to have morning sex with my boyfriend. Is that alright?"

"Yes, my darling," he purred, bemused, "that's quite alright."

She smiled, her hips grinding lazily as she straddled him. She kissed him again, deep and passionate, and his throat suddenly felt very tight. It was an odd sensation, a feeling lodged deep in his chest. He couldn't understand it, couldn't quite get to it. All he knew was that he'd never felt it before, not with any of the women—or men—he had woken up with over the years.

It was only when she breathed " _I love you"_ into her kiss that he realised what it was.

 _Happiness_.

For the first time in a very long time, Lucifer Morningstar was truly, overwhelmingly, completely _happy._

The harsh shrill of her cell-phone vibrating on the bedside table interrupted the moment.

"Oh, for God's sake," Chloe muttered with a start, pulling away from his mouth.

"And there goes my erection," he huffed at the mention of his father, slumping back into the pillows.

She gave him a wry smile as she leaned over him and answered it.

"Decker."

The angle left his mouth hovering over her jaw. He breathed her in, all peaches and soap, and brushed his mouth across her pulse-point. As she spoke, he started to plant hot, open mouthed kisses down the length of her neck. His fingers crept under his shirt and danced down her back. He smirked against her skin when he heard her voice stutter and felt a shudder trace down her spine.

She mumbled a half-hearted goodbye and put the phone down.

"There's a case," she murmured, her voice tinged with disappointment.

Lucifer smirked as she sat up, his hands sliding up her bare thighs. Her hand covered his, toying with the ring on his finger.

"I suppose you'll have to have your wicked way with me later then, Detective."

She gave a regretful sigh, gently patting the side of his face before she climbed off him. He took a moment to just watch her, arms folded casually behind his head, as she hobbled around and tried to get dressed.

She wasn't doing anything particularly remarkable—in-fact, she was cursing under her breath and literally falling over herself—but Lucifer was suddenly struck by how utterly _perfect_ she was.

If he knew then what he knows now, he wouldn't have let her go.

He would have pulled her right back. He would have rolled her over and covered her with his body and insisted they have sex five times and stay in bed all day after. He would have told her he loved her, because he still hadn't said that yet. He thought he had all the time in the world to do so.

But he supposes—as these silly humans like to say—hindsight is 20/20.  
  


* * *

  
It was supposed to be a normal stakeout.

After-all, there was nothing special about the case. Just more infighting within a drug cartel, a lowlife stealing from another lowlife. She was undercover, doing what she did best, while he and Dan watched in the surveillance van out back.

It started off like any other sting.

Dan sat quietly, that permanent scowl on his face, as she adjusted her earpiece and rolled her eyes as Lucifer joked about being inside her. The men bickered, Chloe ordered them to stop, they didn't, and it went on like that for the first hour.

"I don't like her calling you Dad," Dan growled at one point when talk turned to Trixie, "you are _not_ her father."

Lucifer scoffed, adjusting his expensive cufflinks. He thought back to the first time the little urchin had said that, the happy smile on her face as she threw her arms around his waist by the breakfast counter. He had winced, flinching away from her, placating her with an awkward pat on the head.

The mere memory of it made him _shudder_.

"Trust me, I don't like it any more than you do," he said dryly, "perhaps you should have a word with your offspring. She's clearly confused, the poor child."

Dan's scowl intensified, his hard gaze focused on the tiny television in-front of them. The van was cramped, too small for the both of them, and if he didn't so _love_ pushing the detective's buttons, Lucifer would hate being so close to him.

"She is _not_ confused," Dan spat, "she _knows_ I'm her father and you're… well, you're nothing. She's probably just trying to be polite. She shouldn't bother. You're playing happy families now but we both know sooner or later, you'll do something to fuck it up."

Lucifer rolled his eyes, his temper flaring under his skin.

"Because I'm the Devil?" he asked sarcastically, well aware that Dan was still processing the news.

"Because you're _you._ "

He stiffened, a muscle in his jaw jumping.

"Well, as I said, she doesn't have to call me daddy," his tone dropped then, taking on a crueller edge, "I hear that enough from your ex-wife."

"Will you two _stop_?" Chloe's furious voice hissed before Dan could reply.

Both men flinched a little, sitting back in their seats.

"Need I remind you that we are in the middle of an incredibly dangerous operation?" she whispered angrily. Through the staticky television screen, they could see her finger pressing against her earpiece, "this is not the time nor the place for one of your stupid testosterone matches. Dan, I will talk to Trixie. Lucifer, I have _never_ called you daddy and you know it."

Lucifer pouted, holding back all the naughty, wicked responses that fizzed on his tongue. He wanted to punch that smug look off Detective Douche's face, his hands practically itching for a fight.

"Sorry, Chloe," Dan sighed, slumping in his seat. Lucifer smirked, thinking he looked like a stupid little boy who'd had his toys taken away.

There was no _way_ Lucifer Morningstar, the _Lord of Hell_ , would be caught grovelling like that. No way. His mouth was opening to say something but he definitely was _not_ going to—

A gunshot suddenly rang out, stealing his breath and whatever he wasn't going to say.  
  


* * *

  
"Get Chloe!" Dan shouted as they ran into the building, "I'll deal with him."

He ran off after the shooter, the rest of the drug cartel and people in the room already dispersed and screaming. Lucifer didn't care. He couldn't see them. He saw only _her_ , blood seeping out around her in a pool of red.

"No," he breathed, adrenaline and a fear he had never felt before rushing through his body.

Her eyes were wide and glassy as she clutched at her throat, blood seeping through her fingers. The bullet had hit above the vest he knew she was wearing and Lucifer swallowed past the lump in his throat. He leaned down next to her, gathering her in his arms.

"Detective," he breathed, brushing the hair out of her face, "just relax, you're going to be fine."

There was no dramatic speech or tears or last goodbyes. The Detective just twitched once, twice, in his arms and then went still. Her breathing hitched before it slowed, her chest stuttering and caving in. Lucifer stiffened, staring down at her unblinkingly.

"No," Lucifer muttered, his brows drawn into a frown as his eyes searched her pale face, "no, this can't be right."

They had survived countless shootouts and undercover missions and hell-bent murderers. They had survived Malcolm and Michael and Pierce and the literal God and Goddess of Creation. They had battled through her fear and denial and his own self-flagellation, all the stupid reasons they had run from each other, like dual flames who danced together and flickered away the moment they got too close. He had gone to Hell and back for her. They had lost each other, but they always found their way back.

And now there was a bullet in her and in the blink of an eye, she would be dead. He had _just_ got her. They were happy and this was stupid. It was mortal and stupid and he couldn't understand _why_ _._

She had just enough strength to touch his cheek, the grit of his stubble rough under her palm. He pulled her closer and felt a sickening wetness, blood seeping onto his designer, fitted suit.

"I love you," she whispered heavily.

Lucifer swallowed, a wave of despair and shame hitting him when he realised he still hadn't said it yet. It wasn't that he didn't feel it, he _did,_ it was just difficult for him to show something he had never felt before.

Now, holding her in his arms, he was unsure why he had found it so hard in the first place.

"Stay," he ordered shakily, " _please._ "

Her eyelids fluttered, her body growing limp.

"I love you," he whispered finally, but she was already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked it, would you want to see dual POVs or stick to Lucifer's? I normally do stick to one as I think it builds tension better, but would be interested to know your opinion :)


	2. Chapter 2

Lucifer stared at the body in his arms.

There was shouting around him, the wail of sirens and the shocked cries of other officers, but they all sounded too far away. It felt like he was underwater and his eyes slid down to the body again.

She was staring up at him with the same pale eyes. His thumb brushed over her cheekbone, wiping away a smear of blood. He felt the same soft skin he had always admired, once from afar and then with the familiarity of a man who was allowed to touch her. She was wearing the clothes he’d watched her put on that morning and when he pulled her closer, her hair smelled the same—like lavender.

She looked and smelled and felt like Chloe—but she wasn’t Chloe.

He felt numb as he let her go, deaf to Dan's shouting and Ella's sobs. He brushed the young girl off as she tried to hug him, his empty mind focused on only one thing.

The cold wind lashed at his face like a whip as he strode towards his convertible, ignoring every attempt to speak to him or comfort him. He ignored the flashing red and blue lights, the ambulance that was useless now, all that red tape.

They couldn't help him and they couldn't help the Detective.

But someone could.  
  


* * *

  
The penthouse was eerily quiet.

Lucifer poured himself a drink, watching the rich whiskey fill the glass. It felt like there was a rock in his throat, like he was swallowing shards of glass. His eyes were burning, a very different sort of burn from when they blazed red, when he wanted to frighten someone. Now _he_ was frightened, and this feeling of sheer powerlessness was one he had never felt before.

She was gone.

She was really gone.

As he lifted the glass to his mouth, he caught sight of something in the mirror. He took a sip of whiskey, grateful for the burn as it scorched down his throat. Glass in hand, he turned around and walked over to his piano. Her necklace was laying there, the bullet he had taken for her, and he picked it up. He let the chain slide between his fingers, his mind aching with the memory, and then he abruptly threw his glass against the wall.

It shattered loudly, shards of crystal splintering across the floor.

Silence was left in its wake, stretching out, aching and painful.

His jaw slid to the side as he rolled his shoulders.

He looked down at his palm, seeing the skin smooth and perfectly intact. He wished it was sliced open. He wished he was bleeding the way she had bled, the way he would be if she was close. He wanted her to tell him off for losing his temper as she leaned down and picked up shards of glass. He wanted to see that way her brows furrowed and her mouth pinched when she was angry. More than that, he wanted to see it all melt away as he kissed her.

But she would never do that again. She would never kiss him or roll her eyes at him or sit in his lap as he played the piano. They would never solve a case again or dance together or make love.

He sat down at the piano, still lightly gripping her necklace.

"I'm going to keep this brief," he murmured to the empty room, his tone low and dark, "I don't know why that happened. I've given up trying to work out why you do the things you do. Just—make it right again. I'll do anything. Any torture you want to inflict on me, knock yourself out. I'll be bad, I'll be good, I'll go back to Hell. _Anything._ Just—bring her back. Please."

His father didn't answer and the thought of _asking for a sign_ made Lucifer roll his eyes.

But still, he turned the bullet over in his hands again and took a sharp breath.

"Please," he asked again, not above begging, "I can't live without her."

It was true, but then he realised it wasn't even what this was about. This wasn't about him. He meant what he said. If his father wanted him to go back to Hell, to resume his place as King, he would do it. Even if it meant never seeing her again, if it meant living without her. He didn't want her alive for _him_ , he wanted her alive because it didn't seem rightto have a world without Chloe Decker in it.

She deserved to live.

He was greeted with silence again.

He sighed, rubbing a tired hand over his face. He felt exhausted, his chest too tight and aching. His hands flexed, fingers itching to strangle something. They danced half-heartedly over the piano keys before curling into fists on his thighs. He clenched his jaw until his teeth started to ache.

With a decided lack of any sort of sign from his father, Lucifer decided to do the only thing he could do.

Get blinding drunk.  
  


* * *

  
Three hours later, Lucifer was still irritatingly, frustratingly sober.

His phone was buzzing incessantly. So far he had thirty missed calls from Linda, half as many from Ella, and a text chain from Maze that ranged from desperate fury and devastated begging to a string of nonsensical emojis. He had bolted _Lux’s_ doors, furiously shutting the world out, and that permanently open elevator remained sealed.

He was standing on his balcony, his tired eyes focused on the stormy sky and a new glass of whiskey in his hand. He thought of his father again and whether he’d heard his request. He thought of his mother and Charlotte, the innocent woman whose body she stole. He wondered how they were, if they had finally found peace in the Silver City.

He thought of Chloe.

He thought of _Trixie_.

Then he couldn’t think of anything at all.

The pain hit him like a tidal wave and he realised he had been in denial. The numbness was starting to fade into sharp agony, a vulnerability he could only feel when he was with her. It seemed death hadn’t changed that. He finally allowed himself to entertain the notion that his father hadn’t heard his prayer—or he hadn’t cared. Maybe this really was it. She had slipped through his fingers again, vanished into the dark, and now he was faced with _this._ The rest of his long life, without her.

He doubled over, his chest caving with a sharp intake of breath. His hands gripped the railing of the balcony, the metal groaning under his strength.

His head was bowed. He felt a gush of wind as a pair of wings fluttered next to him.

“Leave me, Amenadiel,” he muttered without looking up.

He heard his brother’s heavy sigh.

“You know I can’t do that, Luci.”

Lucifer’s anger raged red-hot under his skin.

“What part of me not answering the door or your calls don’t you people get?” he seethed, his fingers tightening around balcony’s edge, “I want to be alone.”

“Sometimes what we want isn’t always what we need.”

Lucifer finally lifted his eyes to roll them.

“Spare me your pearls of wisdom,” he bit out, his fingers itching to throw the glass again, for the temporary satisfaction of hearing it shatter all over the floor, “just get out.”

Amenadiel extended his hand, clasping it on his shoulder.

“I’m not going to pretend I can imagine what you’re feeling—”

Lucifer laughed but it was a bitter, ugly sound.

“No, you really can’t.”

“—but I wanted to say I’m sorry,” Amenadiel continued speaking despite the interruption, his voice achingly soft, “I’m _so_ sorry, brother. I know what Chloe meant to you. She was a good woman—the _best_. I cared for her too. And she loved you, you have to know that. I know you must be angry at father, but what she gave you… no-one can take that away. Not even him.”

A muscle near Lucifer’s ear ticked as he clenched the strong line of his jaw, and he couldn’t look at him.

“I never told her,” he said blankly, more to himself than to his brother, “I never told her I loved her.”

Amenadiel’s expression faltered for just a moment before he got himself in check, squeezing Lucifer’s shoulder in a futile attempt at reassurance.

“She knew,” he said gently.

“Did she?”

“Of course, Luci,” he insisted passionately, “I’d never seen you look at anyone the way you looked at her. A blind man could see how you adored her.”

“Yes well,” he sniffed, his jaw clenched tight in stubborn refusal, “I wouldn’t start planning the funeral just yet. I’ve asked father to bring her back.”

Amenadiel froze, his hand dropping from his brother’s shoulder. Lucifer fought the urge to roll his eyes again, thinking him very predictable. He turned away to face the sky, taking a sip of whiskey.

“You think he will?” Amenadiel asked slowly, carefully.

“I’ve given up trying to predict what dear old Dad will and won’t do,” Lucifer said dryly, “but I had to try.”

He could practically _feel_ his brother’s trepidation, rolling off him in waves.

“He’ll want something in return,” he warned, “he’ll come to collect. You’ve already bargained for her life once before.”

Lucifer’s anger flared again, an itch under his skin.

“I’m aware of that, Amenadiel, thank you,” he bit out, “now if you’re quite finished with your useless observations, I’d like to be alone.”

Amenadiel took a step back, his hands lifted in surrender.

“Alright brother,” he said gently, the words drifting on a breeze as he gracefully pushed out his wings, “just remember you know where I am if you need me—because you’re _not_ alone.”

Lucifer couldn’t look at him, his jaw clenched tight. He stayed staring straight ahead until his brother was gone.

He drank silently until the vibration of his phone in his pocket brought him back to reality.

As he slipped it out, he thought about not answering it.

He wouldn’t have if it had been anyone else—he _hadn’t_ —but it wasn’t exactly normal for Dan Espinoza to be calling him.

“What is it, Dan?” he practically barked, too numb to call him by the nickname he’d created.

The Detective didn’t speak for a moment, the line silent on the other end.

“I’m really not in the mood,” Lucifer growled a warning, his tone low and dark.

“It’s Chloe,” Dan’s voice choked out, making Lucifer’s blood run cold, “I—I don’t understand it but… she’s alive. Lucifer, she’s alive.”

Lucifer’s eyes slid shut, a wave of intense relief crashing over him. It stole the breath from his lungs, kicked at his stomach like a mule, and he gripped the phone so tight, it almost cracked under his strength.

“Where is she?”

“At her house,” Lucifer was entering the penthouse and grabbing his suit jacket before Dan had finished the last word, “but she’s… I can’t explain it, she’s—”

“I’m on my way.”

He picked his car keys up and strode into the elevator, hastily pressing the ground floor button.

“Lucifer, there’s something you need to know—”

“Dan, will you shut up?” Lucifer snapped, “Just—shut up. I’m coming.”

He pressed _end_ , cutting Dan’s next sentence off before he could make it.  
  


* * *

  
“Lucifer!”

Trixie’s small voice rang out as she opened the door. Dan was rushing behind her with a sigh, running a tired hand over his face, as though he hadn’t been able to stop her.

Lucifer faltered at the doorway, his eyes focused and searching behind her.

He stepped in, releasing a little grunt of surprise as the child barrelled into him. She threw her arms around his waist and held on tight. The side of her face was pressed into his lower stomach and to his horror, he could feel the fabric of his shirt dampening under her tears.

He stiffened, his hands flexing at his sides. Normally, he would push her away. Normally, he would flinch and give Dan a tight smile as he asked him to _kindly_ disentangle his offspring. But these weren’t normal circumstances, she must be hurting, and the fact that she looked to him for comfort made his chest feel too tight.

And besides… despite his protestations to the contrary, he _had_ grown fond of the little urchin. 

So he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her back. His fingers gently stroked through her loose hair, his brows drawn into a frown as he looked at Dan.

“Where is she?” he asked quietly.

Dan swallowed, an emotion Lucifer couldn’t quite decipher flickering over his face. He was too tired to try and if he was honest, he didn’t particularly _care_. He just wanted to get to Chloe; he wanted to make sure everything was right again.

“I just brought her back from—” Lucifer imagined he was going to say the morgue, imagined her waking up cold and terrified and alone, but the words died in Dan’s throat as he glanced uneasily at his daughter, “—I just brought her back. I guess I’m still listed as her next of kin.”

Lucifer nodded shortly, trying to walk but giving a wry sort of smile when Trixie still wouldn’t let go.

“I called Linda and Maze. I asked them to give her some time,” Dan was still talking, his hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck, “she seems pretty overwhelmed… but I didn’t see the point in asking _you_ to stay away.”

Lucifer arched a brow; he would have liked to see him try. He’d been itching for a fight all night.

Dan was rambling.

“She’s upstairs. Resting. Lucifer, I meant it when I said there was something you need to know. She’s… she’s different.”

Lucifer narrowed his eyes. He didn’t _care_. He didn’t care if she came back wrong or if she looked different or seemed different. He didn’t care if she had turned upside down and now she _loved_ smoking crime scene evidence and _hated_ sweet 90’s jams. He didn’t care if she had bloody horns. They would get through it, because they were meant to be together.

“Of course she’s different,” he said, “she died _._ ”

Dan flinched at his bluntness.

“She can’t have.”

“She was pronounced dead at the scene.”

“I _know_ ,” Dan huffed, exasperated, “but that’s _impossible._ They must have made a mistake or… or it was a miracle.”

Lucifer’s mouth twitched but it wasn’t quite a smile.

“A miracle, indeed,” he murmured and then he was gently prizing Trixie away from him. He took her hand instead, grasping it loosely, before he urged her to go to her father.

She did—and Dan was still stuttering through his denial.

“Either way, I need to talk to you—”

“—enough,” Lucifer bit out, his patience pulled taut like an elastic band before it snapped, “I want to see her.”

He pushed past them and took the stairs two at a time.

Her bedroom door was ajar. He gently pushed it open, heard the hinges creak and moan, and then she was just _there—_ sitting up in her bed like she’d never left it. She was propped up by pillows, her expression vacant as she stared straight ahead.

Lucifer couldn’t breathe. He felt sick and elated and confused and a hundred other emotions he couldn’t even begin to decipher. He walked inside, over to her bed, and fought the urge to grab her.

His fingers twitched at his sides, literally straining under the effort of not touching her.

“Detective?”

Her eyes slid to his, an emptiness in them that made his stomach clench.

She stared at him for a beat before she blinked, her gaze finding Dan who was lingering by the doorframe behind them.

“Dan?” she asked innocently, “who is this?”

Lucifer froze, the three tiny words stabbing at his chest like one of Maze’s blades.

He turned around to find Dan’s eyes.

“That…” the Detective started with a heavy sigh, “…is what I wanted to talk to you about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the responses so far! Lucifer POV just about won it, so I'll be sticking to that, but might dip into Chloe's if the mood strikes!


	3. Chapter 3

Lucifer stared, unblinking.

Absently, he could hear Dan talking to Trixie behind him.

“Sweetie, it’s late. Go get in bed. I’ll tuck you in.”

“I want to stay with Mommy,” she whined.

Lucifer wondered how much they’d told her.

“Mommy’s had a long day,” Dan said carefully, in what had to be the understatement of the year. 

“It’s okay,” Chloe interrupted, a smile Lucifer could tell was fake pulling at her lips, “you can sleep with me tonight, monkey. Just let me speak to—”

Awkward silence fell over them for a beat before Lucifer realised why she’d stopped.

“Lucifer,” he muttered numbly.

Chloe quirked a brow but otherwise kept her expression neutral.

“—Lucifer,” she repeated. It didn’t sound right on her tongue, not like how she normally said it, with affection or lust or sometimes irritation, “for a moment. Then you can come back in.”

Lucifer’s jaw was clenched tight, his gaze focused on the Detective, but Trixie must have listened because then Dan was stepping in and closing the door behind her.

“She’s been through a lot,” he said under his breath about Chloe, surprisingly gentle for a man who, since Charlotte, had taken to blaming him for everything bad in the world, “the doctors couldn’t explain it. Her only injury seems to be some retrograde amnesia.”

Lucifer frowned, still trying to process it.

“Detective,” he turned to her. She was still looking at him with an odd, unreadable expression, “what’s the last thing you remember?”

She shuffled slightly, looking uncomfortable.

“I don’t know, I think I was on my way to a nightclub to interview the owner. A girl called Delilah was murdered outside the building and I needed to gather information.”

Lucifer blinked, arching a brow as his gaze slid carefully to Dan. Dan’s own eyes were wide, his mouth opening and closing as he clearly searched for the right words.

“Detective, that was nearly five years ago,” he said slowly, feeling a twinge in his chest at the horrified expression that passed over her face, “that nightclub was Lux and _I’m_ the owner.”

Her eyes started to well up, becoming panicked and glassy.

“I knew Trixie looked older,” she breathed shakily, “I just—I don’t understand.”

Her voice was small and she sounded so _helpless_. The Detective was _never_ helpless. She always knew what to do and what to say. Just as painful was the fact that he didn’t know _how_ to help her. He couldn’t make sense of any of this.

He didn’t understand what his father was playing at.

“This is Lucifer Morningstar,” Dan introduced him, his voice careful and quiet, “he’s your partner, Chloe.”

Silence stretched out between them, awkward and tense. It hurt, the way she was looking at him, only the slightest flicker of recognition. There was _something_ there, burning behind her eyes, but it looked like she couldn’t get to it any more than he could.

Dan cleared his throat awkwardly.

“I’ll, um…” he faltered, swallowing, “I’ll give you two a minute.”

Then he left, closing the door with a quiet click behind him.

Silence fell over them again until she broke it.

“Lucifer Morningstar…” she repeated, her tongue wrapping curiously around the name, “is that a stage name or something?”

His mouth twitched into a melancholy smile, his chest aching from the memory.

“God-given, I’m afraid.”

She narrowed her eyes and he knew that look. He knew all of her looks. She was trying to work him out. His own brain was trying to catch up, trying to make sense of all this. He had played this part before, _they_ had played this part before, but now he supposed he had a second chance.

“So you’re a detective too?” she asked.

An amused scoff rolled from his chest.

“Not quite,” he hummed, “more a… police consultant. That girl you mentioned, Delilah… she was a friend of mine. I had an invested interest in catching her killer, so we worked together. Then… we _worked_ together. We just clicked. We became partners and have been solving cases ever since.”

He watched the movement of her throat as she swallowed.

“Ever since?”

He tipped his head to the side, clicking his tongue. He thought of the few _snags_ they’d had along the way—their first kiss and him running off to Vegas, her engagement to Pierce, his expulsion back to Hell, how she had pulled away from him when she found out she was a gift from God. They had experienced a few bumps, the road had been far from smooth, but he had no regrets because it led him to her.

He thought it best not to overwhelm her for now.

“Yes,” he said quietly, “we were a good team. You can ask Detective Do—Dan.”

It was silent for a few moments before she whispered—

“I _know_ you.”

A brief flicker of hope must have passed over his face because she winced and shook her head.

“No, I’m sorry, that was a bad choice of words,” she said, “I just mean… I know your face.”

He raised a brow, waiting for her to continue.

“I remember it from where I was…” she paused, her brows knitting into a frown, “in-fact, it’s _all_ I remember from where I was.”

Lucifer paused, his mind trying to process it. He wondered what she had seen. He knew she wouldn’t have been in Hell because she’s _Chloe,_ but Charlotte Richards had remembered parts of her afterlife, and Eve remembered the Silver City, and he thought she might have remembered _something_ , even if they were just blurs and shapes and unformed.

He didn’t know if she knew she had died.

He didn’t know if he should tell her.

For once in his very long life, he just didn’t know what to _do_.

“Detective,” he started cautiously, “do you know what happened to you?”

She seemed to consider it for a moment, pain and anguish flickering over her features before they turned blank.

“They said I was shot and I was lucky to be alive,” her voice was soft and her eyes flickered to his, heavy with significance, “but I know it was worse than that. I don’t know where I was— _heaven_ , or whatever—but it felt like years. Just years of… nothing. All I remember is flickers of your face, your _eyes_ … I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”

She still sounded lost and he still _felt_ lost, but there was a glimmer of hope there too. 

“Because you know me.”

She looked at him again, her chest moving as she took a sharp breath. It looked like it was painful.

He swayed towards her, wanting to go to her, his body tense and confused under the unusual restraint. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to hold her. He didn’t want to scare her away. His fingers itched.

“You will _always_ know me,” he added quietly.

Her eyes became glassy, a slight tremble to her bottom lip.

“It’s been a really long day,” she whispered, pursing her lips stubbornly. He knew that look, too. She was overwhelmed. She was trying not to cry, trying not to show weakness. He wished she wouldn’t, wished she remembered there was no secrets between them—

He stiffened.

There _were_ secrets between them now. She didn’t know who he was. She didn’t know who _she_ was, that she was quite literally made for him. They would have to go through it all again, all the pain and hurt and denial. It had taken them _so long_ to get here, despair bubbled hot in the pit of his stomach at the idea that they were back to square one.

He shook it off.

He was the _D_ _evil,_ for Dad’s sake.

He could do anything he put his mind to—and he could win her back.

“I’ll let you rest,” he said, his tone clipped as he took a step back in an effort not to touch her, “when you’re ready… I’m still at Lux. I’ll call in the morning, but… well, the door’s always open.”

For her, it was.

She nodded, that bottom lip caught between her teeth.

He turned on his heel, walking to the door with a tightness in his chest.

She spoke again, causing his hand to pause, lightly gripping the door handle.

“Lucifer?”

He didn’t turn around, but turned his head to the side and dipped his chin slightly so she knew he was listening.

“We were more than partners, weren’t we?”

Her voice was quiet, lined with hurt and confusion, and just like that, that ache in his chest was back.

“Yes,” he murmured, “much more.”

And then he left.  
  


* * *

  
Lucifer raised a brow as the elevator doors opened.

Maze and Linda stood in the middle of the penthouse, the former looking angry and the latter just very, very sad.

There was a pile of smashed glass on the floor, a cold breeze whistling into the room. He had no idea what time it was, only that it was probably morning by now, and the women looked as exhausted as he felt.

“Amenadiel flew us up,” Maze clarified, gesturing to the smashed window that was more like a wall, connecting the open room to the balcony, “the doors were locked.”

He blinked at them before he stepped out of the elevator, the doors closing with a whistle behind him.

“That’ll be because I locked them,” he said dryly, heading straight for the bar.

Maze began rambling—yelling, really—while Linda remained silent. The demon called him unfair and cruel for ignoring them… she hurled insults that were depressingly predicable, insults he knew were because she was hurt because she loved Chloe too.

He closed his eyes, his nostrils flaring as his hands curled into fists on the bar. When she called him selfish, he snapped. He whipped around, his eyes blazing red, his top lip curled into a snarl.

“ _Enough_ , Mazikeen!” he thundered, his fist pounding on the bar.

Maze’s mouth slammed shut, her eyes filling with tears. He almost felt guilty.

She was hurt… but so was _he,_ and he didn’t _need_ this.

Her jaw clenched stubbornly, her arms crossing over her chest.

Linda sighed, taking a step forwards.

“Is Chloe okay?” she asked, “Dan told us what happened, he asked us to give her some time. But you… that’s where you’ve been, isn’t it?”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“She doesn’t remember me,” he cut straight to the chase, flinching slightly when he realised that _did_ sound selfish, “she doesn’t remember any of us, except Dan and her offspring.”

The women stared at him, eyes wide and unblinking.

“What, like…” Maze frowned, struggling for words, “…like some sort of _The Vow_ shit?”

Lucifer’s expression was blank.

“I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s a film,” Linda waved a hand dismissively, like it wasn’t important, and Lucifer wondered absently when Maze started watching _films,_ “so she has amnesia… not entirely uncommon after a major trauma…”

She had slipped into therapist mode and he turned from them again, pouring himself a glass. It was too late, or too early, to be drinking but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. It wasn’t like Chloe was here to stop him.

Besides, something else was brewing inside him, an almost manic sort of positivity that replaced the despair. Linda would probably say he was still in denial, that he hadn’t _processed_ things, but he didn’t care. 

“Be that as it may, it doesn’t matter. I’m going to bring her back,” he insisted, surprisingly casual as he took a sip of whiskey, “she thinks she’s still with Detective _Douche_ , of all people. Or that they’re only separated, at least. But there’s a reason they never ended up together and we did. I know her better than she knows herself. I’m at an advantage—and I intend to use it.”

The Detective was… a _detective_. She was stubborn and persistent and if there was a problem, she needed to solve it. Now _she_ was the problem, and Lucifer knew it would drive her crazy knowing the answers were all right here for her and all she had to do was ask.

She would come to him. He was sure of it.

Meanwhile, Maze and Linda were staring at him like he had a bomb strapped to his chest.

“Of course,” Linda nodded, her eyes kind but her smile tight, “of course, Lucifer. We’ll all help. We’ll be there for her. But… the brain is a mysterious thing. She might never get her memories back. You need to prepare yourself for that.”

“This isn’t happening to her because of her _brain,_ ” Lucifer said bluntly, “it’s happening because she died and I asked father to bring her back. I don’t know why he brought her back like _this,_ but I’ll work it out. And if she doesn’t get her memories back… well, we’ll just have to start again, won’t we?”

His eyes were dark and wild, almost frantic in his stubborn denial, but he wouldn’t entertain anything else. He knew what Linda was asking, what she was trying to prepare him for. It was pointless. Asking him to give up on the Detective was like asking Maze to stop being a demon. It didn’t work.

“Your father brought her back?” Maze repeated slowly, her tearful eyes sliding between him and Linda uneasily.

“Yes, spare me the part where you tell me to be careful,” he rolled his eyes, “I’ve had that speech from Amenadiel. I’m aware my father is probably playing a game, spinning his twisted web. I don’t have the time for it right now.”

Linda stepped towards him until they were toe to toe.

“No, you don’t,” her voice was achingly gentle as she reached a hand up and gingerly touched his cheek, “all you should have time for right now is _sleep_.”

His brows drew into a frown, his fingers tightening around the whiskey glass in his hand as he shook his head.

“You can’t help Chloe without a clear head,” Linda tried again and he knew what she was doing but _still_ —it worked.

He was _exhausted_.

“Alright, I’ll go to bed,” he said, putting the glass down before he sullenly added, “but not because you told me to.”

Maze rolled her eyes, Linda didn’t, and then he was slumping up the stairs.

He was practically asleep by the time his head hit the pillow, but still, he heard Maze’s choked whisper—

“He’s not okay, is he?”

“No,” Linda’s voice was just as broken, “he’s really not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably wouldn't get used to these quick updates haha but your lovely comments and kudos spurred me on. Hope you enjoyed this one <3


	4. Chapter 4

As he strode into the precinct, Lucifer felt oddly cheery.

He handed out doughnuts and coffee, gave slaps on the back and made idle small talk. Linda would call it denial. He called it a positively _brave_ determination to get back to normal.

He faltered by Chloe’s desk, his fingers tracing along the edge, brushing over the neatly organised case files. A week had passed since she returned, a week in which he called every day and received no answer. The Lucifer from _way back when_ would have just turned up at her door. He would have let himself in and started cooking breakfast or rearranging the furniture or reluctantly entertaining her offspring. He didn’t want to be that Lucifer anymore, didn’t want to slip back into old habits. He didn’t want to lose the person he had become, as well as her.

So he’d stayed away.

 _No matter,_ he thought every time he called and got her clinical, boring answering machine message, _she just needs time._

He could be patient. For her, he could. He just had to wait for a bit and then everything would be good again.

Besides, he had a sneaking suspicion her “ _time off to recover”_ wouldn’t last long, and he was surprised Detective Douche seemed to think it would.

The Detective wasn’t exactly one for sitting around in her sweatpants.

But then—

She wasn’t _his_ anymore. He hadn’t known Chloe back then. So if her body was here, occupied by that mind, that person, where was _his_ Detective?

Gone forever.

He stubbornly bit back the sudden wave of sadness.

He couldn’t think that way.

He placed both hands on the desk, leaning over it slightly with his head bowed. He took a heavy breath, breathing in the burnt coffee and stale body odour that defined the precinct. He tried to empty his mind. He needed a clear head. He needed a battle plan.

He jumped when two arms snaked their way around his waist from behind.

Arching a brow, his eyes darted down to see a pair of small hands and tanned skin. His mouth twitched into a wry smile. He knew those hands, that _incessantly_ friendly touch.

“Good morning, Miss Lopez.”

He heard Ella sniff, felt her press the side of her face against his back. His smile turned sad, melancholy, as his fingers came up to gently wrap around her wrist. His thumb stroked gently back and forth as they just stood there for a moment. He wasn’t sure who was comforting who.

Eventually, she broke away, slowly turning him around to face her.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her eyes red and bloodshot, and she was laughing humourlessly and rambling on before he could reply, “scratch that, that’s a _stupid_ question. But you’re _going_ to be okay, okay?!”

Lucifer gave a dry chuckle.

“Okay.”

Ella nodded shortly, stubbornly, and gave him a punch on the arm. He winced for appearances’ sake.

“You’re staying, right?” she asked then, her eyes wide, “you’re not going to, like, _quit_ because of this? Even if you and Chloe don’t work together anymore, I hope you know you have a place here. You have people who care about you. _I_ care about you.”

Lucifer nodded. He appreciated Miss Lopez’s kindness, her warmth. It was something he’d never exactly been surrounded by. It was also unusual for him to have a connection with a woman that had nothing to do with sex. It was nice.

“Of course, Miss Lopez. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

She smiled brightly, hugging him again.

He noticed the smile slip off her face as she pulled back, her wide eyes focused on a spot to his right.

“Miss Lopez?” he asked again, raising a brow at the little choked sound she releases.

She rushed past him, a sob catching in her throat.

He turned around to see what had caused the reaction and saw the Detective making her way towards them. Ella met her halfway, practically flinging herself into her arms.

The Detective flinched, her brows drawing into a frown. Lucifer took pity on her, walking over to them.

“Detective, let me reintroduce you,” he gestured towards the younger girl, “this is Ella Lopez, our very best forensic scientist. You’re friends.”

Chloe stared at him over Ella’s shoulder, her arms still rooted at her sides.

At the touch of his hand on her shoulder, Ella seemingly came back to earth and pulled away.

“Sorry,” she muttered, frantically wiping the tears from her flushed cheeks, “oh my god, you don’t remember me, do you?”

Chloe looked like a deer in headlights, awkward and a little overwhelmed.

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh my god,” Ella repeated again, babbling now, and Lucifer fought the urge to roll his eyes at the mention of his dad yet again, “ _no—_ don’t be sorry! _I’m_ sorry! I’m just so glad you’re okay.”

Lucifer gently touched Ella’s arm.

“Perhaps the Detective might need some time to get reacquainted, hmm?”

Ella nodded, her eyes still teary as she gave Chloe one more forlorn look and then disappeared back into her lab.

Then it was just him and the Detective, for only the second time since she died in his arms.

It was jarring, to say the least.

“Detective Dou—Dan,” he winced, reminding himself to be on his best behaviour, “said you were taking some time off?”

She arched a brow, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye as they walked to her desk.

“Sitting around doing nothing…” her nose scrunched at the thought, “…it drives me mad.”

“I know.”

She faltered at that.

“What were you going to call Dan?” she asked, not missing his slip.

Lucifer pursed his lips to contain his smirk.

“Alright, I normally call him Detective Douche.”

Much to his delight, he didn’t miss how her mouth twitched at the side before she got herself in check.

“No love lost between you, huh?”

He and Dan were in a strange place, to say the least. It wasn’t quite as hostile as when they first met—a time the Detective was stuck in, ironically—but they weren’t in the best place they’d ever been either. Dan still blamed Lucifer for Charlotte’s death—which was wildly unfair, if you asked him—and he was still processing his true identity. 

“We get along better than we used to,” Lucifer shrugged finally, deciding to keep it diplomatic, “but I don’t think he’ll be inviting me for tea any time soon. After-all, he’s still your ex-husband and I’m still your partner.”

He still refused to use the word _boyfriend—_ it left a sour taste in his mouth—but she seemed to bristle again at the casual mention of their connection.

She skirted around it—and ten minutes later, she was swamped by colleagues and well-wishers, all desperate to hear about her scrape with death. She looked uncomfortable, anxious, and when she got a whiff of a new case, the familiarity of it seemed to calm her. It was something she knew, something she was _good_ at—even if she didn’t quite remember how good they were together.

“Right, so where are we going?” he asked as she tried to politely give an enthusiastic rookie the slip.

“ _We_?” she repeated, her tone lined with confusion and a little impatience as they made their way outside.

“Of course,” he said smoothly, “what better opportunity to jump straight back in? I can remind you how well we work together.”

She paused by the door, a conflicted look passing over her features.

“Detective, if there’s one thing you should know about me… it’s that I don’t lie. We _do_ work well together. We bring people to justice. I know that’s important to you. Let me show you.”

She seemed to consider it for another moment before her curiosity got the better of her, as he knew it would.

“Alright,” she muttered and then added the words he’d been desperate to hear, “let’s go.”  
  


* * *

  
Two hours and countless boring witnesses later, the Detective was angry with him.

Her eye was doing that twitching thing it did when she was annoyed. Her brows were furrowed and her mouth was pinched and he found it amusing, he enjoyed it, because there was a time he thought he might never see it again.

He loved where they were before—it had taken them long enough to get there, after-all—but sometimes, he missed the push and pull of their early relationship. He missed the banter and the flirtatious edge, all the delicious frustration that came with their unresolved sexual tension.

It burned between them again, brimming under the surface like something new.

“I’m dreadfully sorry, darling,” he was purring to a pretty brunette who had not so subtly implied she would give him information if he gave her, well, _him,_ “years ago, I would certainly have taken you up on the offer—but I’m afraid I’m a taken man now.”

The girl pouted in disappointment. He missed her reply because the Detective was dragging him away to a quiet corner.

Ella and the forensic team fussed around them, the evidence surrounded by yellow tape and the flash of cameras.

“What the hell are you doing?” the Detective asked through gritted teeth.

He feigned innocence.

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

She crossed her arms over her chest.

“You’re _drinking_ on the job,” she gestured to his suit pocket where he’d pulled out his flask more than once, “you’re totally distracted, you’re being incredibly inappropriate, _and_ you’re flirting with the witnesses.”

“She was flirting with me, actually.”

She rolled her eyes.

“When are you going to show me how _well_ we work together?” she asked dryly, “I’m still waiting.”

“I was helpful in getting information from the husband, wasn’t I?”

She opened her mouth and closed it again, likely unable to argue with that. She looked conflicted again, lost and confused, and a realisation hit him square in the chest. He had to be serious with her. He had to _show_ her he was serious.

“I meant it when I said I didn’t lie,” he said, his voice a little quieter now, “and certainly not about this. Not about you. The way we are together, you and I… it isn’t _traditional,_ but it works.”

She swallowed and he noticed she still wasn’t looking at him, wasn’t meeting his eye.

“You and I…” she repeated, “you still haven’t told me exactly what we are.”

“Detective,” he reached for her, placing his index finger under her chin and gently forcing her to meet his gaze, “can’t you tell?”

She swallowed again. He didn’t miss how her breath hitched.

He could see her eyes become slightly glassy, but she didn’t pull away. She might not have her memories, but she had her feelings, and her body had always reacted to him. She looked nervous and uncomfortable, but not surprised, and he could still read her like a book.

“Lucifer…” she started weakly, “you don’t even know me.”

He just laughed.

“I know _Hot Tub High School_ is your biggest regret—it shouldn’t be, I think it’s rather brilliant. I know every crime scene makes you cry and that you miss your dad, even though you’d never admit it. I know you want to make him proud and that you punched a paparazzo at his funeral. I know you love cheesy 90s tunes and that you always put the little urchin first. I know you have a tiny scar on your abdomen from where you had your appendix out and that you bite your nails when you’re nervous. And I know you loved me… in all the ways I didn’t deserve to be loved. Darling, I know everything about you.”

She stared at him, wide eyed and stunned by his speech.

“Okay,” she said eventually, clearing her throat, “but none of that changes the fact that I don’t know _you_.”

The reminder stung.

“But you will,” he insisted determinedly, “you just need time.”

She shook her head.

“Maybe it would just be easier if you let me go,” she said eventually, rubbing the tops of her arms, “if we were just friends and co-workers. I mean, I still feel _married_.”

Lucifer kept his expression smooth, even as the words hit him like a punch in the gut.

“I can’t do that,” he shrugged simply, “because you don’t belong with Detective Douche, you belong with me. You might not remember that, but you only have one heart, and you’ll feel it soon enough. Darling, I died when you did. So I’m never going to stop fighting for you, because I have nothing to lose.”

Chloe stared at him, her eyes glassy with visible tears.

“Are you always like this?” she gaped at his dramatics.

He shrugged, a little smile pulling at his lips.

“Pretty much.”

Then she sighed.

“Why are you doing this to me?”

She sounded weak, exhausted. It hurt him, too.

“The last thing I want to do is hurt you,” he said, “but you once said that I made you a better detective… and you… well, you make me a better _everything._ I know it’s worth it, I know _you’re_ worth it, so I’m not going anywhere.”

He had to bring her back.

 _Everything_ depended on it.


	5. Chapter 5

As Lucifer stood on the balcony, a glass of whiskey toying between his fingers, he thought back to something the Detective had said at the crime scene.

_Why are you doing this to me?_

She had asked that once before.

He remembered how she had said it in that same broken tone, her throat thick with tears. They had been sitting right here, in the penthouse, and he’d been so focused on all the wrong things. He’d been trying to out-do Cain, consumed with jealousy and obsessed with trying to show her he was better, when really, he should have just _told_ her.

He should have told her how she was the first woman he had ever loved, and the only woman he would ever love. He should have told her how he felt when she walked in a room. When she brokenly asked “ _why do you care who I’m with?”_ he should have said _“because you should be with me,”_ and when she left, he should have asked her to stay.

They found their way eventually but he’d wasted so much time. They could have had two more years together before this happened, not just those few blissful months. He was determined not to make the same mistakes. They had spent long enough dancing around this— _years_ —and it was his turn to fight for her. The way he should have fought for her that night, and all the nights before that. He wouldn’t be running off to Vegas this time.

She wanted him to fight for her the first time she asked; he couldn’t.

She wanted him to let her go the second; he couldn’t do that either.

The whistle of his elevator doors opening dragged him out of his reverie.

He turned around, his brow arching when he saw the offspring of the very woman he’d been thinking about.

Trixie stood bathed in the elevator’s soft yellow light, before she stepped into the penthouse.

“Hi, Lucifer!” she called out cheerily, shedding her pink jacket and tossing it haphazardly onto the piano.

Lucifer was rooted to the spot for a moment before he blinked into life. He left the balcony, sliding the glass doors shut behind him. His mouth pinched in distaste as he picked the jacket up, wary of the zips scratching the expensive wood, even as he placed his whiskey glass down on the same surface. He held the jacket between two fingers at arm’s length before he draped it over the arm of the sofa.

All the while, Trixie watched him, amusement dancing over her features.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, the question floating away unanswered as she began to wreak havoc on his penthouse, as always. He followed her around, trying to right the path of destruction she left behind, muttering a panicked jumble of _“don’t touch that”_ _, “put that down”_ and _“be careful, that was a present from George Washington!”_.

As always, the little urchin was deaf to his distress.

“Stop, child!” he caught her eventually, grabbing her by the shoulders and turning her around to face him. He rolled his eyes and snatched a centuries’ old Tibetan amulet from her hands.

Her smile was half a smirk, half a pout as he put it back on his desk where she’d swiped it.

“What are you _doing_ here?” he asked again.

She shrugged, staring up at him innocently.

“It’s game night.”

He blinked at her before letting go, running a tired hand over his face. An overwhelming sense of déjà vu kicked him square in the stomach.

“Does your mother know you’re here?”

She gave him that same guilty look, shrinking slightly and forcing a smile.

“Yep...” 

He arched a brow, attempting to give her his best displeased grown-up look.

“Okay, no,” she conceded with a sigh, “but we _never_ miss game night.”

He sighed too. He felt bad for her. Her world had been turned upside down too and it was difficult to adjust.

“You’re very stubborn for such a small human."

Her mouth curled into a grin.

“You give up too easily for such a big human.”

“I’m not human,” he smirked.

She rolled her eyes, humouring what she believed to just be eccentricities, “Whatever.”

“Either way,” he started, grabbing her shoulders again and basically shoo-ing her into the elevator, “it’s not fair to worry your mother.”

“I left a note!” Trixie insisted in a whine, her feet scrambling against the floor as she tried to slip like an eel out of his strong grasp, “ _duh_.”

Lucifer paused, his finger poised above the elevator button.

“Well, it’s not _duh,_ ” he mocked, “given your track record.”

Trixie just shrugged.

“Lucifer, _chill._ ”

“I _beg_ your pardon?”

“Mom knows I’m here,” she emphasised pointedly, “which means _she’ll_ be here in….”

She gestured at the elevator and held the pause for dramatic effect. He rolled his eyes, highly doubting that the timing would add up, but then the elevator was pinging and two doors opened to reveal a very angry Detective.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he breathed with a smirk, the irony of the words not lost on him.

He knew the furious look on the Detective’s face. It was enough to make the Devil shrink.

“You,” she pointed at her offspring, “we’re going home. _Now_.”

Trixie pouted, her face falling in a way that made Lucifer terrified she was going to cry. There were a great many things he was good at… dealing with crying children was not one of them.

“But… it’s _game night_ ,” she tried the same excuse with her mother.

She sounded _exasperated_.

Chloe opened her mouth to protest before she closed it, her gaze slowly dragging to Lucifer.

“Game night?” she asked. 

He gave a little shrug. “It’s a tradition.”

She turned her attention back to Trixie, her angry expression softening around the edges. She gently touched her shoulder.

“This is important to you?”

Trixie nodded enthusiastically, her eyes lighting up again.

“Yeah, Lucifer has _every_ game and _every_ toy!” Lucifer fought the urge to wince at just how many _toys_ he had, ones certainly not for her consumption, “it is important to me, and it’s important to you too, Mommy. You just forgot.”

Her voice was so innocent it gave even _him_ a twinge.

The Detective looked sad too, and he got the feeling she didn’t want to upend her anymore. The girl was going through enough.

“Okay,” she sighed eventually. Her fingers twitched at her sides. “What do we normally play?”

“I’ll get the Monopoly board,” Lucifer answered cheerily.

“Nah,” Trixie said suddenly, making them both pause, “I think I want to play with that karaoke machine Lucifer bought me for my birthday.”

He grimaced, picturing himself prancing around the penthouse with one of the sparkly pink microphones.

“Hard pass,” he said dryly.

“I want to practice my solos _anyway_ ,” she sniffed, clasping her hands together, and then her expression turned very solemn as she added, “you guys should talk.”

His mouth twitched in amusement, his eyes flitting to the Detective. She wore a matching expression, lined with surprise, and then Trixie was skipping away.

She went straight to a storage cupboard by his desk and pulled the shiny machine out.

“Wow, she really knows her way around this place, huh?” Chloe said, amused.

“Yes, your offspring has absolutely no concept of personal space,” he answered with no malice, “and I find I can rarely say _no_ to her.”

She smiled softly, watching with an expression Lucifer couldn't quite read as her child set up the gift he’d given her. He’d spent longer than he cared to admit trying to find that bloody machine, exasperated at Amenadiel’s lack of ideas and Maze’s suggestion that the child was old enough for her own knives now.

“She’s right,” the Detective said suddenly, turning to him, “we probably _should_ talk.”

He nodded, placing a hand on the small of her back and leading her to the couch.

Trixie chose that moment to burst into song, her voice shockingly loud for such a small person. It set him on edge, made his teeth itch. Still, he didn’t want to give the Detective the wrong impression by suggesting they move into his bedroom, but then she was biting her lip and suggesting it herself.

“Do you want a drink?” he asked as they passed the bar, picking his own glass up from the piano along the way.

“No, thank you.”

He nodded and then they were walking up the steps and she was sitting on his bed, perched on the end like she’d never left it.

It was an affecting sight, to say the least.

He sat down on the chair in the corner of the room, wanting to give her some space.

He didn’t know where to start.

“I asked about you,” she blurted out suddenly, wringing her hands in her lap, “around the precinct.”

“What did you find out?”

“Everyone loves you,” she huffed, “you’ve made quite the name for yourself. They all said the same kinds of things… that you’re charming and funny and you _helped them out_ , in some way or another. You’re quite the giver, huh?”

He bit back the innuendo that burned on the tip of his tongue, remembering the noises she made, how she felt and tasted, when his mouth moved between her legs and brought her to peak after peak.

“I suppose you could say that,” he settled on eventually.

“There was something else that quickly became very clear.”

“What’s that?”

He watched her take a breath.

“That we really were as close as you said,” she said quietly, a pretty pink flush rising up her cheeks, “everyone said I was crazy about you, that we were inseparable. A huge part of my life is just… missing. There’s so much I don’t remember, including how Trixie got that big. There’s so much I don’t understand. But clearly you were a big part of that missing time and so maybe you’re the only one who can give me answers. If you don’t mind, that is. I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable or hurt you even more.”

He smiled wryly. _Selfless to a nauseating degree,_ he had once called her, and now here she was, desperate for answers but checking he was okay to give them first.

“Of course I don’t mind, darling.”

“Okay,” she breathed, seemingly preparing herself, “was I good to you?”

He stilled. Of all the questions he had imagined her asking, that one hadn’t even occurred to him. Then again, given her nature—who she was and always would be—he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised her main worry was that she had turned into someone unkind. 

“You were perfect,” he said without missing a beat, “ _are_ perfect. Far better than I deserve. I even told you as much the first time we kissed.”

She pursed her lips. She looked interested in this direction of questioning.

“What did you say? When did that happen? Where were we?” she paused, screwing her eyes shut and shaking her head, “sorry—I’m babbling.”

His mouth twitched into a lazy, lopsided smile.

“It’s quite alright,” he said gently, leaning forward and holding his whiskey glass between his legs, “we were by the water—”

 _Our first kiss was by the water, you remember that?_ Her voice echoed through his mind, the memory aching and painful. He pushed it down.

“—on the beach,” he continued, “things had been going in a very particular direction with us and I told you I’d had an epiphany that it would never work. I said how selfless you are—still are, by the way—and that you deserved someone as good as you. I said how you always put the little urchin first—I still don’t understand how, especially now I’ve heard that incessant caterwauling—and how I wasn’t worth it. You replied by kissing me.”

She listened aptly, drinking in every word. In the background, Trixie was hard at work butchering Britney’s best hits. 

“And we’ve been together ever since?”

He gave another wry smile. If only it had been that easy.

“Not quite,” he muttered, “we’ve had some… bumps along the way.”

She nodded, taking it in her stride.

“But we were happy?”

His chest ached.

“Yes,” he murmured, “we were happy.”

She looked a little sad then too, and she shook herself out of it, a detective seeking answers.

“Are you why Dan and I never got back together?”

He wished he could say _yes,_ just to really drive home the fact that Detective Douche was her past, not her future. But he couldn’t lie to her.

“No, I made it quite clear that I wanted you from the beginning, but you were remarkably stubborn. It was quite refreshing, actually. As you can imagine, I’m not used to rejection,” he smirked with a touch of characteristic arrogance, motioning to his body with his hands as she rolled her eyes, “you were already separated when we started working together, and divorced for years before we became a couple. You just realised you weren’t compatible. I had nothing to do with it.”

Her brows furrowed as she tried to process it. He tried to understand. For him, she hadn’t loved Dan for years, the idea was absurd to him, but for her, the separation still felt new. The notion that she might still want to make her marriage work made him feel nauseous, but he had to trust that she would come back to him in her own time.

And he didn’t suppose Detective Douche would be doing much to discourage her, he thought dryly. He had already lost Charlotte, had never _really_ wanted to lose Chloe, and perhaps he thought of this as his second chance.

Lucifer made a mental note to discuss it with him, his fingers practically itching at the thought. 

“I’ve had some messages, some people come by the house…” Chloe said then, “a blonde woman, Linda... she seemed nice. And then someone who was kind of… _scary_ … but Trixie loved her?”

Lucifer smirked.

“Maze,” he said for her, “she _is_ scary, but fiercely loyal. You’re friends. I’m sure when you’re ready, she would also be happy to fill in some gaps. Linda, too. She's a therapist, after-all, and one of the best.”

She nodded again and then suddenly swallowed hard.

“Trixie… I still think of her as a baby. Has she been okay?”

“I’m not exactly the _paternal_ type... at _all_ ,” he said sourly, “but yes, as far as children go, she disgusts me the least. In-fact, she’s rather remarkable.”

Chloe smiled, a touch of pride lighting up her face.

“She seems to like you.”

“What’s not to like?” he fired back smoothly.

She rolled her eyes but there was a smile pulling at her mouth. He was drawing her back in, he could tell.

There was no awkwardness between them, no fear or discomfort.

It was just… easy.

“Tell me something else,” she leaned forward, a spark in her eyes that wasn’t there before, “something important that’s happened in the past few years.”

He was tempted to keep it about him, his arrogance flaring, but he thought better.

There was something else she needed to know, something he knew was devastatingly important to her.

“Your father…” he started, watching as her jaw ticked and her walls flew up, “you found out his murder wasn’t actually a robbery, but intentional. It was organised by a prison warden called Perry Smith. Joe Fields was innocent, paid off by Smith to take the fall. You arrested Smith. You got justice for your Dad.”

She swallowed, her eyes suddenly flooding. His mind sparked with the memory of when he told her he thought John Decker would be proud of her and she embraced him, right there in her kitchen. Her tears affected him as much now as they did back then. 

“I’m sorry, Detective, I didn’t mean to upset you—”

“—no, no, I need to hear this,” she waved it off, “I asked. It’s just… it’s a lot to take in. So this Smith guy... he's in prison?”

“No, he got off on a technicality,” Lucifer said, “but then he was murdered by the mob so… there’s that.”

She blinked, letting out a humourless rush of breath at his bluntness. She swallowed again and her brows knitted into a frown. He nearly told her about Malcolm, but she already looked so shaken, he decided to keep it to himself for now. Given how differently her co-workers treated her, he figured she would work it out herself soon enough. 

Besides, she was changing the subject again, bringing it back to them, and she tried to distract herself by asking—

“Did we fight a lot?”

He considered it for a moment.

“Not really… but I certainly knew how to push your buttons.”

“Finally, something I _don’t_ find hard to believe,” she said with a little smirk, likely imagining how he had irritated her at the last crime scene.

“We were passionate,” he replied, “that’s the only way I can think to describe it.”

He watched her fondly, noticing the lovely blush to her cheeks. He missed making her blush. He wanted to show her just how much.

“Did we laugh a lot?”

His smile was soft, warm. “Yes, darling. We did.”

Her expression was soft too, and then she was standing.

“Do you mind if I look around?” she asked, “maybe it might jog my memory.”

He doubted it. His father worked in ways far more mysterious than that.

He waved a hand regardless.

“Knock yourself out, Detective.”

She walked around the room, trailing her finger along surfaces, along expensive paintings. She moved effortlessly, as though through muscle memory, as though she owned the place. In many ways, she did. She owned him, after-all. When her fingers tapped curiously over his safe, he thought about opening it for her. Her necklace was in there, back where it had lay before he’d given it to her for the first time. He thought about giving it to her again, it was hers, but something stopped him.

“Oh,” her flustered exclamation interrupted his trail of thought. He leaned forward in his chair, craning his neck to see what she had found.

His mouth twitched in amusement.

She was holding the strip of birth control pills he hadn’t realised were on the bedside table. _Her_ side of the bed. 

“I’m sorry,” she stammered, dropping them like they’d burned her, “I didn’t—I didn’t know you… that someone else…”

“They’re yours.”

She paused, her fingers tentatively brushing over the packet again.

“Oh,” she repeated again, a little quiet.

“I haven’t been with anyone else,” he said, because it felt very important to say.

“So we were…” her voice trailed off.

_Unable to keep our hands off each other? Fucking like bunnies?_

“We were sexually active, yes.”

Her cheeks burst into heat again, that prudish Detective from all those years ago flying back to the surface. It amused him. If only she knew the things they used to get up to. He supposed it was just something else he could re-introduce her to, the way her body would sing for him, the toys she would blush at in the day but thoroughly embrace at night.

As she continued to root around his room, the one she used to know inside and out, a sweeping sadness began to pass over him. He tried to shake it off, to keep positive, but it hit him square in the chest.

He could tell her all these things. He could talk her through their memories, step by step, and answer all of her burning questions in painstaking detail. He had a supernatural recollection, after-all, but he could never actually make her _feel_ those memories.

She could ask him if they were happy and if they laughed and if they argued and he could answer—but there was so much he couldn’t explain. Like how they moved together and finished each other's sentences and all the tiny, wonderful things that made them _them_. She had to feel them and he couldn’t do that for her.

She must have noticed his change in mood because she sat back down again, an apologetic look on her face.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered and at least the fact that she could still read him hadn’t changed, “I understand this is overwhelming for you too.”

He shifted, taking a sip of whiskey. It left a pleasant, very needed burn.

“It’s alright,” he said, “it’s necessary.”

“Is it?”

He looked at her, beautiful and half framed in lamplight.

“What do you mean?”

“I said before... you could let me go.”

“I can’t.”

“ _Why?_ ”

Something other than sadness flared inside him. It was anger, red hot and stirring. Not anger at her, but at the unfairness of the situation. At himself and his stubbornness, at his father and his stupid games, at all the lost chances and opportunities.

“Because you’re it for me,” he said like it was very simple, but his accent was fierce, “a couple of years ago, we were separated and I had to go away. I was lost the way you are now… and there wasn’t one day, in all that time, when I didn’t think of you.”

She didn’t know he wasn’t lost at all, but in _Hell_ , and that _all that time_ was literally thousands of years, but _still_ —she was clearly affected. 

“And so you see, my darling…” his voice dropped, husky and low, “…perhaps it’s selfish, but getting you back is my only chance to be happy again. I simply don’t work without you.”

She looked emotional, the moment aching and raw, even juxtaposed as it was by Trixie wailing loudly in the background.

He held her gaze for a heated moment before he had to look away. He suddenly felt exhausted.

She didn’t back down.

“Where did you go?” she asked, her voice quiet, “when you went away?”

He looked at her again and saw her expression heavy and somewhat significant. She looked like she knew something, something was glistening behind her eyes, and he arched a brow. He couldn’t lie. He never had before, and he didn’t see the point in starting now.

“Hell,” he said bluntly, “because I’m the Devil and its former Lord.”

He expected her to laugh or roll her eyes or tell him to be serious. Perhaps she would ignore him or assume he was being euphemistic, the way she had all those years ago. Perhaps she would want to know more and he would show her his true face and then she would run away again. Either seemed possible.

What he _couldn’t_ have predicted was the way she simply shrugged and said—

“Okay.”

His other brow rose.

“ _Okay?”_

“I’m not _stupid_ , Lucifer,” she said lowly, pointedly, “I know I was dead… despite everyone trying to tell me it was just a close call. I was _dead._ I was gone. I told you I don’t remember anything and that’s true, but I know I was _somewhere._ Somewhere cold and empty, where I saw nothing but flickers of your face.”

He tried to process the information, wondered if she had been in purgatory. It had been decades since he’d heard the term. He wondered again what game his father was playing, why he’d send her back more pliant to who he was, why she’d seen only him and knew him in a way that was seemingly innate.

“It took you years to accept who I was,” he said quietly, “and when I showed you… when you really saw me… you ran away.”

She held his gaze, head-fast and strong.

“I’m not running now.”

And then, in the warm glow of moonlight and with Trixie moving onto a ballad in the background, she demanded—

“Show me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this one, it was basically twice as long as the other chapters! Did Trixie purposefully orchestrate this? You can decide (the answer is yes, absolutely yes).


	6. Chapter 6

“So she just… _accepted_ it?”

Linda’s voice was lined with amazement.

Lucifer hummed in casual agreement, turning his attention to his sleeves as he adjusted his cufflinks.

“I’m as surprised as you are, doctor,” he quipped, “I showed her my wings _and_ my devil face and she barely flinched—and I’ve spoken to her since, so I know she hasn’t run away.”

The therapist blinked once, twice, then sat back in her seat.

“ _Wow_ …” she looked like she was struggling for words before that professional mask slipped back on, “and how do you feel about that?”

Lucifer smirked, raising a brow.

“Back to the “I” statements are we, doctor?” he said teasingly before he gave a dramatic sigh, “alright then. _I_ feel relieved… that the Detective is seemingly more _agreeable_ to my true nature. _I_ feel confused. I don’t understand what my father’s playing at, or where she went on the other side. And _I_ feel I need to speed things along to the part where we’re good again.”

Linda’s eyes flashed and her mouth pursed. He knew that look. She was wearing her best “ _I know what’s really going on in your head”_ expression. It was as irritating now as it was all those years ago, back when he’d first started seeing her. She always knew what he was trying to hide, cutting straight through his denial to the vulnerable core underneath.

Sometimes he thought there wasn’t a human alive who knew him the way Dr Linda Martin knew him.

“Lucifer, this is what I was afraid of,” she started with a sigh, “you say _the part where we’re good again_ … that won’t happen overnight. It may never happen at all.”

He bristled, shifting on the uncomfortable couch.

“So what are you suggesting? That I give up?”

“No! Not at all,” Linda said emphatically, shaking her head, “you were made for each other—quite literally. I have every faith you’ll find your way back—and no-one wants that more than I do. But I know what you’re like, Lucifer. Your go-to reactions are often denial, self-sabotage and, frankly, outlandish-ness. I know you love Chloe. I know you want her back. But you _need_ to play this carefully.”

He stilled, letting her words sink in. Deep down, he knew she was right. He did have a tendency to lean towards the ridiculous. He was impulsive and reactive and used to getting what he wanted. He was the _Lord of Hell_ , after-all, the King of Desire… and it was hard to throw those shackles off.

He wanted the Detective—and he wasn’t used to waiting.

But he would. For her, he would.

 _There are no shortcuts,_ he had told her the last time she’d pulled away from him, back when she struggled to accept being a gift from God, _take all the time you need._

He had been willing to be patient back then and she had been worth the wait. She’d be worth it again.

“You want me to be patient,” he echoed, folding his hands in his lap.

She breathed what looked to be a sigh of relief,

“Yes,” she said softly, “get to _know_ her, demystify her all over again. You never know what you might find this time around.”

He already knew the Detective, inside and out, but he was willing to try.  
  


* * *

  
“Lucifer!” Maze’s voice called out from the elevator, “I have a gift for you. Found it loitering downstairs.”

He rolled his eyes, his hands buckling his belt. His hair was still damp from the shower, his chest and feet bare.

“Not interested, Maze.”

“Trust me,” she fired back without missing a beat, her tone dancing with amusement, “you will be.”

He arched a brow, lifting his eyes to see his demon bartender and his Detective standing side by side.

A cocky grin lit up his face when he saw the expression on hers.

The Detective’s eyes were wide, glued to his bare chest. 

He knew that look. He knew the fire in it, full of want and frustration. Her lips were parted, as though her mouth were too dry, and her pupils were dilated. It was the same look she got after a week of her period, or when they had spent a few days apart. It was the same look she got when she watched his fingers glide over the piano keys before she slid into his lap, leaning into him as she breathed _“keep playing”_ against his jaw and unbuckled his belt.

It was the look of a sexually frustrated Detective—only it was magnified, burning out of control and painful.

“Yes, yes, we all know he’s very beautiful,” Maze rolled her eyes, heading straight for the bar, “you can stop staring.”

Chloe’s cheeks burst into heat as she immediately tore her gaze away.

“Oh Detective,” he purred, taking pity on her and grabbing a shirt, “I have missed your pretty blush.”

She huffed out an exasperated breath. He’d missed that too.

“We have a lead on the case,” she cut straight to the point.

He didn’t answer as he walked towards her, buttoning his shirt along the way. Out of the corner of his eye, Maze was pouring herself a glass of his best bourbon.

“And here I thought you just missed me.”

He watched a muscle in the Detective’s cheek tick.

“Oh _spare me,_ ” Maze muttered, “are we really back to this “ _will we, won’t we”_ bullshit? Memories or not, you’re clearly wet for him so just _bone_ already _._ ”

“ _Manners_ , Mazie,” Lucifer tutted delightedly as Chloe’s blush burned brighter.

“Is she always like that?” she gaped, her eyes sliding between the two of them. He didn’t know what Maze had said to her since she’d been back, how many times they’d seen each other, but the demon certainly took some getting used to.

“I’m afraid so, darling.”

Maze grinned, carefree and wide. “Endearing, isn’t it?”

“Not quite the word I was going to use,” the Detective grumbled.

Lucifer took pity on her again.

“What’s this break in the case then?”

She reached into the bag he hadn’t noticed her holding and pulled out a mugshot. She placed it on the piano.

“Enzo Ricci,” she said, “he’s a powerful mob boss, operating in Vegas. Apparently our victim was way over her head in gambling debts. He—or his organisation—leant her money, she couldn’t pay it back, and now she’s dead.”

Lucifer glanced at the photograph, sifting through his memory, the thousands of people he had met in his very long life. He recognised the man as someone he had once granted a favour to, something to kickstart his colourful career.

“Oh, I know him!” he chirped cheerfully, “one of my devilish _IOU’s,_ if you will.”

“Of course you do,” Chloe rolled her eyes, “well, he’s holding a high stakes game of _Texas Hold ‘Em_ down at the Bellagio next week. I was planning on an undercover operation. I thought we could use your connections as a way in but if you know him… even better.”

He threw her a charming grin.

“For you, darling?” he purred, “anything.”

Her jaw tightened again.

“It’s not for me,” she said, her tone clipped, before she referenced their dead victim, “it’s for Lily.”

“ _Potato, pota-toh_.”

She huffed again and his smile turned more serious, warmer. He placed a hand on her shoulder.

“ _Chloe,_ ” he murmured, not missing how her breath hitched, “I _want_ to help. We’ll find who did this.”

She nodded and then shifted on her feet, like she wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

He read her, _knew_ her, too well for that.

“There’s something else you came to discuss.”

She took a breath. Next to them, Maze was leaning over the bar watching curiously, her chin propped up on her hand.

“As you know, with regards to my _personal life,_ the last thing I remember, I was trying to make it work with Dan.”

He stiffened, his fingers twitching at his sides. His eyes slid to the bar. He really needed a stiff drink in his hand if he was going to have this conversation.

She swallowed.

He wanted her to say it—to just _say_ it, so he could tell her what a stupid idea it was. 

“He wants to try again,” she said quietly, “he wants to give our marriage another shot.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Maze grimace awkwardly, taking a large gulp of bourbon.

“Of course he does,” he said evenly, sliding his gaze back to her, “and how do you feel about that?”

She shifted uncomfortably, her shoulders tense.

“I don’t know,” she answered eventually, honestly, “I’m still finding my way. I just… with our history…” she closed her eyes and grimaced, unable to express herself clearly, “Lucifer, I know you’re waiting for me. I wish I could be that woman for you, the one you loved, I really do, but… I can’t. I’m not her. I just—I thought you should know.”

He blinked at her before he tried to smile. It felt too tight.

“Alright.”

She looked at him warily.

“Alright?”

He shrugged.

Maze snickered.

“You think I’m in denial,” the Detective seemed frustrated, “that I’ll just repeat the same mistakes all over again until I realise I’m meant to be with you.”

That was _exactly_ what he thought, but he didn’t say it.

“I’m not saying anything,” he half-laughed, putting his hands up in mock surrender.

“Look, he’s part of my life. He’s Trixie’s father. If there’s a chance for me to keep my family together, I should take it, right?”

She sounded unsure, like she was trying to convince herself. 

“You’re just prolonging the inevitable, Decker,” Maze replied this time, tapping her nails on the bar’s surface, “Dan’s fine for a human but once you’ve had Lucifer, you can’t go back. _Trust me._ ”

A smirk crept up Lucifer’s face, his ego well and truly stroked.

It seemed to infuriate her.

“I don’t remember _having_ Lucifer,” she bit out before turning her attention back to him, “you’re so annoying.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to! It’s written all over your face.”

He shrugged again, “Detective Douche knows what he’s doing—what he's _done_.”

“He cares about me,” she insisted stubbornly, not seeing her ex’s intentions the way Lucifer saw them, “I think he still loves me.”

“I’m sure he does,” he said calmly.

She huffed angrily again.

“8am Friday, I’ll pick you up here,” she said gruffly, before turning on her heel, “be ready.”

She grabbed the mugshot of Enzo Ricci off the piano and stormed to the elevator.

Lucifer watched her with that easy smirk, his arms crossed over his chest.

She wouldn’t look at him as the elevator doors closed, but she must have heard Maze laugh—

“Well, I’m sure _Detective Douche_ doesn’t push her buttons quite like that.”  
  


* * *

  
Lucifer lifted his whiskey glass to his lips—half to drink, half to hide his reaction.

The Detective was at the top of the stairs, her elegant fingers sliding down the bannister as she made her way towards him. The front of her dress dipped down sinfully, exposing the creamy curve of her cleavage, and the bottom swept the floor. It clung to her body like poured scarlet silk, and when she moved, the lights from the expensive chandeliers glinted off the diamonds around her neck.

He dipped his chin to the side, his fist anchored against his mouth.

“Darling,” he purred, “where _do_ you keep your gun?”

He saw her lips twitch almost imperceptibly as his voice rumbled through the earpiece, hidden by her hair. She continued making her way down the stairs and he tried to focus on the cards in his hands. The Bellagio was bright and loud, the casino pulsing and vibrating with life. He sat at a poker table, surrounded by dangerous criminals, and men like that didn’t trust outsiders.

Lucifer was their only way in—but the Detective could hardly walk into the casino with her gun and badge. So here she was, under the pretence of a loving wife.

“ _You can’t go wearing that_ ,” he’d said when she’d picked him up, his unimpressed eyes taking in her humble jeans and t-shirt, “ _you’ll stick out like a sore cop_.”

He just hadn’t expected her to turn up in a dress quite like _that_.

Her hair was perfectly curled, falling in thick honey waves down her shoulders, and there was a sway to her hips and her lips were painted as red as the dress and _fuck_ , she was beautiful. He was keenly aware that every man at the table was staring at her.

He rolled his shoulders, his jaw slid to the side, and he tried to focus on the game again.

The whole ruse… it gave him a thrill. It reminded him of old times, back when they’d just met and they worked undercover and he thought sleeping with her would get her out of his system. She’d impressed him with her wit, her dry sense of humour, and every time she said _never,_ he just wanted her more.

The man next to him let out a low whistle.

“Fuck me,” he chuckled, “somewhere there’s a lucky bastard who gets to take that home.”

Lucifer quirked a brow, his eyes darting up to follow the man’s gaze. Predictably, he was looking at the Detective. The man’s face fell when she reached them, her arm sliding gracefully around Lucifer’s tux-covered shoulder.

His mouth tipped into a lazy smirk, his arm winding around her waist as she leaned against him.

“I suppose I’m the lucky bastard,” he crooned. The man grumbled a half-hearted apology as the rest of the table snickered.

Lucifer didn’t care; he could barely hear him. All he could focus on was the heat of her against him, soft and warm and everything he’d missed. His hand came up to greet hers on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

She leaned into him and he wondered if Amenadiel had somehow followed them to Vegas because he _swore_ time stood still. She was warm and he could feel her hip against him and even though it was fake, it was still everything he had been yearning for for weeks.

She leaned down, slipping perfectly into character.

“Good luck, baby.”

She murmured—and then her lips were on his cheek. She kissed him there, her mouth soft and sweet against the grit of his beard. When she pulled back, he could still smell her, all peaches and Chanel, and his body ached from the loss. 

He was depressingly aware that he was staring at her as much as the others as she gave a sultry smile and sauntered away from the table.

“Lucifer!” Enzo Ricci guffawed when she was gone, “who was that _angel_?”

Lucifer smirked at the reference.

“That… was Mrs Morningstar.”

“Well, I never thought I’d see the day.”

“You and me both.”

“You’re a lucky man,” Luca Ricci, Enzo’s brother added, as they watched the dealer burn the first card on the deck, “she looks like quite the woman.”

Lucifer’s eyes found her again, watching as she reached the bar, gracefully slid onto a stool and ordered a Manhattan.

“You have no idea,” he muttered, and raised the stakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember this is a Deckerstar fic guys! Everything with Dan will come to light. Chloe's lost and confused right now and it's easy to slip back into old habits when you're searching for comfort. Some more Deckerstar fireworks next chapter and a Lucifer/Dan confrontation...


	7. Chapter 7

Lucifer was sitting in the corner of the hotel room, his whiskey glass perched on the arm of the chair.

He tipped his head back and sighed, his fingers tapping along the edge of the glass. Then he adjusted his cufflinks, the pair she had bought him last Christmas. He’d worn them on purpose. Then he brushed some invisible fluff off the thigh of his expensive, immaculate suit. All for something to do.

He was _bored_.

The Detective never used to take this long to get ready.

In-fact, she would often tease him, smirking that it took him longer than it took her. She would point to his perfectly coiffed hair and his fine, tailored suit and tell him he was the vainest man she had ever met. He would happily agree, winding an arm around her waist and giving her a kiss worth waiting for.

“Detective,” he called out, glancing at his watch, “far be it from me to rush you, but the Ricci’s are expecting us—”

The words died in his throat as the bathroom door opened.

She was bathed in the half-glow of lights that were too clinical and bright. She was brighter still. Her dress was blue this time, a deep sapphire that brought out her eyes. It clung to every curve, the straps two thin lines of diamonds. She wore her hair poker straight, her eyelids shimmering with sultry silver.

She must have taken his stunned silence as a bad thing because she grimaced, her eyes flickering down to her body.

Her hands drifted across her stomach, rippling the silk like water.

“I can’t pull this off,” she muttered, “I’m older… my body isn’t the same. I look ridiculous.”

He snapped into life. It must have been torturous for her, not only to lose her memories, but to not recognise her own body, to feel uncomfortable in her own skin.

He cleared his throat.

“You look beautiful,” he corrected—because she _did_.

She glanced up, her expression frozen for a moment before a bright smile started to creep up her face. It was beautiful. She was beautiful.

He loved her.

“Really?” she breathed, “you like it?”

He stood, unfurling his body from the chair. The whiskey glass stayed on the arm as he walked towards her. He slowly lifted his hand, approaching her carefully, like she was an easily startled deer about to bolt. He gently twisted a strand of blonde around his finger.

“I do,” he hummed, “it’s very Elvira.” 

She clearly got the reference because she smiled, dipping her chin alluringly. He didn’t think she was _trying_ to be alluring; she just was. She had the power to move him—to tempt the man who literally created temptation—and what she didn’t understand, what she had _never_ really understood, was that every move she made, every frustrating, ridiculous word she uttered, his entire world depended upon.

“Does that make you Tony Montana?”

His mouth twitched. He gave the strand of hair one more little tug before he dropped it.

“No,” he said, “I’m far better looking.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t disagree and then her eyes were raking over his navy blue suit.

“You do look pretty sharp.”

He gave a lazy smile. “Detective, you'll make me blush.”

“Shut up,” she fired back, something sparking behind her eyes, “I know you enjoy having your ego stroked.”

“I enjoy having all manner of things stroked,” he answered easily, a smooth, flirtatious edge to his voice.

She arched a brow, her eyes flashing, and if he didn’t know any better, he would swear she looked flirtatious too. He waited for her next move like it was a game, a dangerous push and pull.

“Maybe we should practice what to say,” she said then, her voice somewhat quieter, and her eyes fell to his mouth, “The Ricci’s think we’re a couple, after-all. They might get suspicious.”

He doubted it. They _were_ a couple; her body knew that, even if her mind didn’t.

This was his chance to show her.

“We don’t need to practice,” he murmured, “I know you. You know me.”

“Lucifer—”

He interrupted her protest before she could make it, his hands finding her waist. Her eyes widened as he walked her backwards, the air hot and thin between them. Her back hit the wall with a soft _thud_.

She was holding her breath and her body seemed pulled taut like the string of a bow, but she didn’t push him away.

She swallowed and lifted her chin defiantly.

“I know all your sweet spots,” he started, his hand coming up to gently touch her earlobe, “your ears…” he trailed the fingers down, his ring a sharp contrast against her creamy skin, “the curve of your neck… the hollow of your throat…”

His fingers splayed over her neck, his palm resting above her heart. He could feel it quicken, missing a beat before it fluttered wildly against his palm. She still wasn’t stopping him, her eyes anchored to his lips, so he continued.

His left hand went to the wall by the side of her head. With the other, he trailed the backs of his fingers down her side and felt her shiver.

“I know you’re ticklish here, just under your ribs…” he murmured, before his hand went to her other side, “I know you have a scar here… and one here… I know each one from every time you’ve been shot.”

She swallowed again as his hand went back to her chest, laying his palm over her heart.

He leaned in closer, until she could feel the heat of him, all whiskey and smoke, and practically _purred_ at how her heartbeat stuttered under his palm again.

“I know your heart,” he said quietly because _yes,_ he wanted to have sex with her, he always wanted to have sex with her, but she had to know it was _more_ than that, “I know how kind and selfless you are. I know your mind. Your very clever, brilliant mind… the smartest person I know.”

She let out a shaky breath. He watched her gaze flicker from his mouth to his eyes and back again.

He leaned in. Her lips parted. The air thrummed like a living thing between them, burning with the weight of everything left unsaid.

He cupped her cheek, the pad of his thumb gently rubbing over her bottom lip.

“I know how you like to be kissed,” his voice had dropped to a whisper, and then he dragged his lips to her ear to hotly add, “I know how you like to be fucked.”

Her hands were on the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer.

She _whimpered._

“As I said, my darling…” he pulled back to look at her face and saw her truly shaken. Her normally pale eyes were dark. He was sure his own were black, “…I know everything about you.”

She was still tugging at him, her eyes glazed over and lost to desire. Whether it was her body remembering or whether it was something new, she wanted him. He had her under his spell, in command of the room’s very energy and vibrations. It all pulsed towards him.

If he leaned in and kissed her now, she would probably let him. She would probably kiss him back. And then, the moment would snap and break, and she would push him away—because she wasn’t ready.

He needed to be patient.

He needed this to be real.

“And I know…” he husked, letting the words hang between them, the air thick and heavy with tension, “…we’re going to be late for dinner.”

He released her from his heady grasp, taking a step back.

She took a moment to blink to life.

“Yes,” she tried to say but her voice was husky and low. She cleared her throat and tried again, “yes, you’re right. We should go.”

His mouth twitched as he glanced down at her. He felt tight everywhere. His jaw, his shoulders, his chest, his _pants._ How many years had it been since he got hard from less than a kiss? He couldn’t remember, but it certainly wasn’t _normal._ She was driving him mad.

“My lady,” he crooned, extending his arm.

She huffed a little shaky laugh but took it, looping her arm through his.

They left the room and headed to the car, the one that would take them the short journey down Las Vegas Boulevard to the restaurant, Top of the World.

He’d wanted to just plant it in her mind, let the seed take root. He wanted to show her how good it was between them, how passionate and electric and _natural._

And as they walked, her gaze constantly drifting to him like a magnet, he knew he had.  
  


* * *

  
“The last time I met Lucifer…” Enzo was already deep into his second bottle of Merlot, the apples of his cheeks flushed red, “…he was sleeping his way through half of LA.”

The Ricci brothers let out matching, raucous laughs.

“Only half?” Lucifer questioned with a salacious grin, “you do me an injustice.”

He felt, more than saw, Chloe roll her eyes next to him.

Enzo laughed again, delighted.

“What I mean to say is… you're the last person I expected to seewith a pretty little wife on his arm.”

“And she is _very_ pretty indeed,” Luca, perhaps even drunker than his brother, slurred, “but my brother is right. Lucifer Morningstar’s reputation precedes him. You must have something truly magical between your legs.”

Lucifer’s anger flared, burning red hot under his skin.

The Detective must have noticed because she quickly put a hand on his thigh, squeezing it in warning.

It didn’t _entirely_ work.

“Ricci,” his tone dropped dangerously, “you’d do well to have some respect.”

The man shrunk in his seat, a flush that had nothing to do with the wine creeping up his cheeks. He grumbled an apology but the Detective was easily smoothing things over.

“Perhaps it’s not what’s between my legs that ensnared Lucifer,” she started casually, “I mean, any woman can open those. Perhaps it’s my mind—my _clever, brilliant_ mind—that captured his attention. If you can believe a woman capable of such things, of course.”

Lucifer watched her, impressed and a little awed, as she continued speaking, trailing her finger along the edge of her own wine glass.

“Surely you have women of your own?” she was thinking of their victim, he could tell, of Lily, “women who have ensnared you too?”

The brothers glanced at each other.

“Of course,” Enzo shrugged eventually, “we love women and they _love_ us.”

Lucifer took a sip of whiskey, trying to hide his wry smile.

He wondered about Lily and her gambling debts and how far in above her head she was. He wondered which brother killed her, if either, and if they hired someone instead.

They hadn’t got very far with the brothers, the night full of small talk and business transactions and lavishness that made even the Devil roll his eyes. But they had found some connections, had chipped away at the case a little more, and they had some more intel to bring back to LA.

“Yes,” the Detective was humming, “the things men do for women… the things _we_ do for the people we love. You make it sound like I’m a gift for Lucifer, but maybe we are a gift for each other. Maybe that is the gift itself.”

Lucifer stiffened in surprise. She had no idea the depth to her words, she didn’t know what she was saying, but deep down, he couldn’t help but hope she did.

He pictured _his_ Detective, buried deep in the recesses of her mind, clawing for a way out.

She was in there.

He just had to find a way to get to her.  
  


* * *

  
“Well they’re definitely assholes,” Chloe muttered as they closed the door, tossing her jacket on the bed, “I just don’t know if they’re murderers.”

Lucifer hummed in agreement, switching the lamp in the corner on and sitting on the edge of the bed.

She turned to look at him again, her cheeks a little red from the heat and the alcohol and the thrill of the case. She rolled her bottom lip between her teeth.

“Do you want a drink?” she asked quietly, “coffee or… something stronger?”

He’d already drunk enough to make a human pass out three times over but all he felt was a pleasant buzz.

“Sure,” he said.

“I’ll just freshen up first,” she said, pointing to the bathroom, “this dress is suffocating me.”

He bit back all his flirtatious replies, his gut instinct to seduce, his offers to take it off, and then she was gently closing the bathroom door behind her.

He sat in silence for a few moments, his fingers tapping an uneven tune on his thigh.

His chest felt too tight, his throat dry. He fought the urge to adjust his collar.

Was he _nervous?_ he thought, horrified.

A vibration on the bed next to him had him arching his brow, turning to see the Detective’s cellphone poking out of her jacket pocket.

He looked at the screen, a name flashing ominously.

_Dan._

It was just three letters—but anger kicked at Lucifer’s stomach like a mule.

He clenched his jaw and looked away. His thigh began to jump up and down. He looked back again and he knew he shouldn’t, but he gave into the temptation.

 _Good,_ he thought as he sniffed and picked the phone up. There were a few things he wanted to say to him.

He swiped the screen and brought it to his ear.

“Hello Daniel.”

He felt a cheap thrill at the way the Detective’s breath hitched on the other side of the phone.

 _Good,_ he thought again, _he should be scared._

“Daniel…” he purred again, “you’ve been a very bad detective.”

The other man cleared his throat.

“Lucifer,” he said, as though it could be anyone else, “why are you answering Chloe’s phone?”

“She left it in the bed,” he decided to toy with him a little, “she’s in the shower now _._ I fear I’ve exhausted the poor thing. Supernatural stamina, you know how it is.”

“You’re playing with me.”

Lucifer rolled his eyes. “Very astute of you, Detective.”

“I was just calling to check in on the case, how your dinner went with the Ricci brothers.”

“I’m sure you were,” Lucifer said calmly, “but I do have some things I would like to discuss with you while you're here. The Detective tells me you’re eager to work on your lost marriage. You can imagine my surprise when I heard that.”

“Lucifer, I… look, I know you must be mad—”

“— _mad_?” he repeated on an incredulous exhale, “Daniel, you know what you’re doing is wrong.”

He could practically _feel_ the detective bristle.

“She’s not yours anymore,” he bit out, “she doesn’t remember you. She remembers me. She loves me.”

Lucifer couldn’t help but laugh.

“Has she told you that?”

The silence on the other end of the line told him everything he needed to know.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, “you’re taking advantage of her.”

“I am not!” Dan bit back stubbornly, “I’m not forcing her to do anything. I’m not forcing her to feel any sort of way and I’m not _forcing_ her to remember me.”

His tone was accusatory, stoking Lucifer’s rage.

“No, you’re just conveniently leaving out parts of the story,” he said, “parts of her history. Parts of _your_ history. Or am I to believe you’ve _told_ her the truth about Malcolm and Palmetto?”

 _That_ silence told him everything he needed to know, too.

“You’re rewriting the narrative to suit yourself,” he said then, his voice quieter, “I mean, I knew you were a piece of shit, Dan, but this really is a new low.”

“ _I’m_ a piece of shit?” Dan seethed, “you’re the fucking _Devil_. You think you’re _right_ for her? She has a chance at a normal life now. She deserves that. _I_ deserve that. I’ve paid my dues, she forgave me. I just want to keep her and Trixie safe.”

“You want a do-over,” Lucifer corrected dryly, “you lost her and you lost Charlotte and I’m sorry for that, I really am. I understand you’re broken. But at least give her all the facts. At least tell her the truth. I’m not doing it for you... and I would like for her to be fully informed when she chooses me again.”

Dan barked a laugh.

“What makes you so sure she would? She doesn’t remember you… and I’m no doctor but I’d wager the longer that goes on, the more likely it is to stay that way.”

“Her mind may not remember me, but her body certainly does,” Lucifer replied, his tone suggestive, and maybe it was childish, but he didn't care, “I can pull things out of her you couldn’t even dream of.”

That hadn’t changed. She had reacted to him tonight; her body _did_ remember, but even if her mind never did, Lucifer suddenly realised something else.

“Even _if_ she doesn’t regain her memory…” he closed his eyes and pushed on through the pang of pain that sent through him, “…I’m not running away. I will start over with her. I will rebuild our relationship, step by step. Right from the start, if I have to. I will be her partner. I will be her friend. I will have my lover back. I’m not going anywhere, Daniel.”

Silence stretched out, long and tense, in the gap between them.

“I’m going to tell her about Palmetto,” he said eventually, his voice crackly and thin, “I _am._ I just—god, I fucked things up so badly last time. Maybe I _do_ want a second chance. Maybe I wish she’d never met you.”

He could read between the lines, at what he was implicitly saying.

If Dan hadn’t lost her before, he lost her the moment she met Lucifer.

The moment she _found_ Lucifer would be more accurate, because what they had was more than chance; it was destiny.

“But she did,” Lucifer said quietly and when he lifted his eyes, he saw the Detective leaning against the now open bathroom door, “I need to go. I'll deal with you later.”

He hung up, keeping his eyes on her as he tossed the phone to the side. 

Silence hung over them.

“How much did you hear?”

She shrugged, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Enough.”

“I’m sorry for answering it,” he said, “but I had some things I needed to say to Detective Douche.”

She sighed, her expression unimpressed. She was out of that dress and into simple sweatpants now. Irritatingly, he found her just as beautiful.

“I’m not an object for you two to fight over,” she said sternly, “I won’t get caught in the middle of your pissing contest. I’m not yours and I’m not Dan’s—I’m _mine._ Memories or not, I’m my own person.”

“I know,” he said easily, “your fire is one of the things I love about you. I wouldn’t ever want to snuff it out.”

“Good,” she replied, “and you wouldn’t ever want to hurt me, or lie to me?”

He had no idea that question was setting him up for a fall, that she was playing him like a fiddle. 

“No,” he frowned, “never.”

“Alright,” she took a step forwards, “then tell me what you meant when you asked Dan to tell me the truth about Palmetto.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvira is a reference to Elvira Hancock from Scarface, google it, Michelle Pfeiffer was and is 🔥


	8. Chapter 8

“I think you should ask Detective Douche.”

He knew the Detective didn’t like his reply from her expression — that muscle that jumped in her jaw, the way her eyes narrowed.

She was annoyed.

“I’m asking you.”

He ran a tired hand over his face.

“It’s not my place, Detective, and I can’t tell you about something that happened years before I arrived.”

“You can tell me the basics.”

He felt frustration flare under his skin, his muscles growing taut and defensive.

He wanted to, _of course_ he did. He wanted to drag Daniel through the mud, wanted to scream from the rooftops about what a monumental _prick_ he was and all the many, _many_ reasons she shouldn’t be with him. He wanted to be childish about it. He wanted to dig out that whiteboard from when he’d shot him and manically scribble even more heinous methods of revenge. He wanted to tie him down and force his eyes open, _Cl_ _ockwork Orange style,_ as he made him watch _The Room_ for 48 hours straight. It was a punishment he’d forgotten last time and he thought it was rather brilliant.

But then he remembered Marcus Pierce.

He remembered frantically trying to one-up him like it was a competition, cooking her dinner, buying her a car, focusing on all the wrong things. He remembered how tears had shone behind her eyes when he smugly asked, “ _isn’t this better than anything Pierce can do?”_ and fallen over when she realised why he was doing it. He never wanted her to feel that way again. He never wanted someone else to come between them.

He didn’t care about Daniel, he cared about her.

He cared about them.

“I can tell you he lied to you about what happened that day, and he kept lying for years. I can tell you it was enough to destroy the potential of any future relationship between you — and _that’s_ why he’s keeping it from you this time. The specifics… they need to come from him.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, a clearly defensive move. He didn’t need to be a body language expert to know it meant she was putting a barrier between herself and something she didn’t like. She didn’t like what he was saying. In the moment, she probably didn’t like _him._ It didn't matter. He was going to do this right.

“I don’t understand,” she muttered, not looking at him.

He stood, rising from the bed to so he could speak to her at the same level.

She shook her head and still refused to look at him.

“When you come back to me, it has to be of your own will.”

She scoffed, shook her head again and then finally turned to look at him.

Her eyes were pale but fierce, _angry._

She was getting frustrated.

“ _When_?” she questioned, her tone a little harsh.

He shrugged.

“Yes, _when_. I told you, darling, you can’t fight this. It’s bigger than the both of us.”

“Oh really?” she asked bitterly, a little scoff rolling from her chest, but she looked unsure too. She knew as well as he did that her body reacted to him. She knew, somewhere deep down, in a place she couldn’t quite get to, that he was telling the truth.

“Yes, _really_ ,” he repeated teasingly, “your body reacted to me tonight, didn’t it?”

She scoffed again, but a pretty flush blossomed in the apples of her cheeks.

“Doesn’t mean anything,” she sniffed, her arms still crossed over her chest, “it reacts to Dan too.”

It was his turn to scoff as an incredulous snort rolled from his chest.

“ _Please,_ ” he smirked, “I know all about Daniel’s sub-par skills, you told me one drunken night. We had a good old laugh about it — and then I showed you what real passion was all about.”

Her blush intensified but she was still the most stubborn woman he knew and she tried to hide it.

“Well, I’m not that person anymore. Things have changed.”

His mouth twitched under his stubble.

“Not that,” he murmured, “I know you’re not sleeping with him.”

She spluttered slightly and clenched her jaw.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” she tried to sound coy but her voice shook.

“You were surprised to see the birth control pills,” he pointed out, “and you don’t love him.”

She blinked at him, outraged.

“You don’t _know_ that.”

“Well, you’ve said he loves you, but not once have you said it back.”

“That’s because it’s none of your business!”

“No, it’s not that either.”

She lifted her chin stubbornly.

“I have needs, Lucifer.”

He laughed.

“Believe me, Detective, I know all about your _needs._ ”

She blushed again and he could see the cogs in her head turning. Perhaps she hadn't been all too fussed about the act when she was with Dan. He almost smirked at the thought.

He could tell she was seeing red, struggling to think of a comeback.

“You’re an arrogant son of a bitch, you know that?” she settled on, “there’s no way I ever loved you.”

His mouth twitched, his brow arching smoothly.

“Hate to break it to you, darling, but you did,” he said casually, “ _I_ was never unsure of that.”

Maybe it was the stress of the night, maybe it was the way he was standing there, so calm and confident, but her anger boiled over. She shoved past him, barging into his shoulder. He allowed himself to be moved, giving a casual tug on his jacket.

His fingers wrapped around her wrist and gently pulled her back.

Her eyes were still fierce and angry, her chest rising and falling rapidly. As he looked at her, the anger started to melt into surprise. Perhaps her and Dan had argued before, but the Detective was always calm and always collected and he doubted she’d had such a reaction before.

It had scared her.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered, “I…”

He gently placed her hand against his chest so she could feel his heart.

“That,” he said, “is what I meant by real passion.”  
  


* * *

  
Lucifer’s hands were floating across the piano keys, the moonlight from the penthouse’s glass wall streaming in and bouncing off the ring on his finger.

There was a half-full glass of whiskey on the surface, an equally half-burned cigarette hanging from the crystal ashtray. He watched the smoke rise in billowy clouds as he played.

He was so engrossed, his mind emptied and blank, he didn’t hear his elevator doors whistle open.

He didn’t see or feel or hear the Detective — until she knocked something over by his bar and sent shards of glass scattering across the floor.

He stopped playing, the last note floating away, interrupted.

He turned around, his brow arching in curiosity.

“Oops,” she was grimacing, an apologetic wince pulling at her lips.

He moved over to the bar, dropping to his haunches to pick up the half-shattered bottle of whiskey she had dropped. He turned it over in his hands.

“This was a gift from Al Capone, you know,” he quipped, “I’ve kept it in pristine condition since 1926.”

The Detective’s eyes widened, her mouth opening and closing as she stammered an apology.

He took pity on her, his mouth twitching into a lopsided smirk.

Her eyes flashed with understanding, her expression turning deadpan.

“You asshole.”

He snorted, putting the half-smashed glass on the bar.

“Yes, I’m joking,” he confirmed and then arched a brow, his eyes sweeping to the end of the bar, “that bottle’s over there.”

She rolled her eyes and huffed a relieved laugh.

When she looked at him again, he noticed her eyes were glassy, her makeup dark and a little smudged, and the cause for her clumsiness suddenly became clear.

The Detective was drunk.

“Are you alright?”

She scoffed and grabbed another bottle from the shelf. He watched quietly as she flicked the top off and took a swig.

“I’m just _great,_ ” she insisted, “Dan told me the truth — or rather, I _made_ him tell me the truth.”

He quirked a brow, leaning his hip against the bar.

“Don’t act like you’re not happy,” she mumbled before he could reply.

“I told you, I never want to see you hurt,” he answered calmly.

“Well, I’m not hurt,” she sniffed stubbornly, “I’m _pissed._ ”

He nodded slowly.

“Why don’t you come over here and tell me all about it?” he crooned, extending a hand. She huffed but took it as he carefully guided her to the sofa, making sure she avoided the glass.

She slumped onto the Italian leather, tiredly tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“You were right,” she murmured, not sounding happy about it in the slightest, “Dan shot Malcolm. He lied to me… for _years_. He let everyone believe I was crazy. He let _me_ believe I was crazy.”

Lucifer listened calmly, quietly, letting her rant.

“What am I _doing_?” she whispered helplessly, placing her head in her hands, “everything feels upside down. Everything I thought I knew, I just… don’t. It _hurts_. I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

His chest ached with sympathy for her.

He took one of the hands she had over her face and entwined their fingers. To his surprise, she held on tight, like he was an anchor, keeping her from sinking into despair. 

“ _I_ do,” he said gently, “you’re kind and smart and the best person I know. Even if you forget that, I never will.”

She shifted slightly, turning to face him.

Her eyes were shining slightly darker, the air thinning between them.

“I want to remember,” she whispered brokenly and he realised it was the first time she'd admitted that.

Then she took his face in her hands, closed her eyes and leaned in to kiss him.

If her eyes hadn’t been so glossed over, if her words hadn’t been slightly slurred, if he couldn’t smell the alcohol on her breath… he would have let her.

But they were and he could.

So he screwed his eyes shut, agonised, and gently closed his fingers around her wrists. It was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do, but he pulled back.

It brought a memory kicking and screaming to the front of his mind.

She frowned, looking confused and betrayed.

“I thought you wanted this.”

“I do,” he breathed, a heavy and painful sound, “more than _anything_ — but not like this. Not while you’re drunk and upset.”

She sighed but didn’t seem angry, more surprised with a tinge of embarrassment.

He didn’t want her to be embarrassed, didn’t want to hurt her any more than she was already hurting. He wanted to comfort her, to make her _see_.

“I want you to be in your right mind. I never have, and never would, take advantage of you. Trust me, darling, normally I would—”

“—leap at the chance to fulfil your carnal desires, I know.”

She said it with an eye roll, falling back with a huff, but the words made him freeze.

“What?” she asked.

He gave her a gentle smile, waiting for the lightbulb moment. He saw the moment it landed, a flicker of recognition passing through her eyes.

“You’ve said that before, haven’t you?” she said; it wasn’t a question.

He nodded, something heavy and unspoken passing between them.

He tried to take it with a pinch of salt, tried not to get too excited, but somehow, from _somewhere_ , she had remembered.

And if she could remember that, perhaps she could remember everything.  
  


* * *

  
The hangover the next morning wasn’t quite as bad as it was the first time she’d woken up in his bed.

She looked sheepish, her cheeks tinged pink, but she didn’t hold her head in pain or throw up or tell him this was a mistake.

She didn’t run away.

“Good morning,” he hummed as he was walking past the doorway and caught sight of her sitting up in bed, her fingers raking through her messy hair to comb it into some semblance of normality.

“Morning.”

The sight of her in his bed again hit him square in the chest. His smile was tight as he tried to hide it. Of course it would have been better if he’d woken up next to her, rather than in his spare room — but _baby steps_ , he told himself.

“Coffee?” he asked, leaning against the Assyrian stone column as he quirked a brow towards the bar, “or hair of the dog?”

Her nose scrunched.

“Coffee, _please_.”

He nodded and watched as she slid out of bed.

Still half asleep and likely unaware of her actions, she slumped to his en-suite. He cocked his head, intrigued, his brow arching as he followed her. He stood by the door and watched as she grimaced at her reflection in the mirror, swiped some dry mascara from under her eyes, and opened the cabinet. Then, without hesitation, she grabbed her pink toothbrush, untouched from where she’d left it, covered it in toothpaste, and shoved it in her mouth.

She must have caught his bewildered expression in the reflection behind her because her brow raised.

“What?” she paused, the word slightly muffled.

His mouth twitched into a smile as his eyes flickered pointedly to the toothbrush.

“I never told you where it was.”  
  


* * *

  
An hour later, they were on his balcony, the Californian air balmy and warm.

“Can I ask you something?” she broke their easy silence.

He gave an easy hum in response.

“Back in Vegas, you said _you_ were never unsure that I loved you. What did you mean?”

He shifted in his seat, turning his face away. He squinted slightly against the morning sun, his expression solemn. He couldn’t lie to her — but he knew how it would sound and he didn’t know how to explain.

“I suppose I never technically said the words.”

Her brows furrowed.

“You never told me you loved me?”

“I never explicitly said _I love you_ ,” he corrected, “but I told you in different ways, I _showed_ you in different ways. Detective, the way I feel about you… it’s not easy for me to explain.”

She inhaled shakily, her frown intensifying and he could see she was pulling away, so he placed his hand over hers on the table. Her wary eyes flitted back to his.

“Darling, I did,” he said heavily, “I _do._ ”

He watched the movement of her throat as she swallowed.

“You were right about something else too,” she said then, her voice quiet, “about my body reacting to you.”

He listened, his hand still covering hers on the table.

“It’s like it knows you, but my mind doesn’t.”

His mouth twitched into a melancholy smile.

“It’ll take time,” he said gently.

She shifted, dragging the chair slightly so it was away from the table. Then, she brought it closer to him, so close her knees brushed up against his. He tried not to let his surprise show as he waited for her next move, letting her take the lead.

“The thing is, I can take on more cases and have new experiences… but certain things can only happen once. Trixie’s first school play, our first kiss… things like that are gone forever. You can tell me about things, but I can’t feel them. So I guess what I’m asking… is for you to _show_ me... because despite everything, and without knowing why, I _do_ trust you.”

She slowly placed her hands on his face, her thumbs swiping across his cheekbones.

“I’m not drunk anymore,” she whispered.

“No,” he murmured, “you’re not.”

She brushed her lips against his, slow and cautious. Fire snapped at his heels, more vulnerable than he'd felt in years. It felt strange, to be so cautious with her, like she might slip through his fingers again, vanishing into the dark. It felt familiar and yet new, and he waited with patience he never knew he had. 

One of her hands slipped from his face to his chest. He felt the other one in his hair.

He let her take the lead, take control. She pressed her lips harder to his, then they parted, and he felt her tongue touch his bottom one.

He opened his mouth for her and her tongue swept inside. The kiss intensified, turned more heated, the morning sun beating down. He could taste her again, _finally_ , all sweetness and warmth and mint from his toothpaste. As her tongue slid against his, hot and slippery slick, he was suddenly struck by the realisation _this_ hadn’t changed.

It was the same kiss, _her_ kiss.

Her hands, her mouth, her touch, everything that was familiar and sexy and _perfect_ about her was still in her kiss.

He kept his hands on her face, every muscle in his body pulled taut with the strength of his control.

She broke the kiss and took a quick breath.

It was the closest they’d been since she was taken from him — not everything, but _enough_ for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait lovelies! hope it was worth it :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quicker update this time! just a warning, this one is angsty af... but check the tags! I'm all about the angst with a happy ending. I've also extended the chapter count by 1 to flesh this out. There's method behind my madness...😏

As his elevator doors creaked open to reveal the person inside, Lucifer thought of all the people he would rather see.

Justin Bieber, an army of ageing hipsters, Gabriel, the insufferable cheap-skate, the entire cast of Jersey Shore…

Anyone _._

He would have preferred to look upon _any_ of them, rather than the (admittedly very handsome) face of his twin.

“Michael,” he said curtly, moving over to the bar and pouring himself a whiskey.

He reluctantly poured a shot of Ciroc for his brother too — because although he despised him, he was _nothing_ if not a hospitable host.

Michael took it and downed it in one, his mouth twisted into that ugly smirk he always wore. Lucifer rolled his eyes, not having the time for it, and went back to his bedroom to put the finishing touches on his suit.

He carefully lifted the expensive, tailored jacket from where it lay on his bed and stood in-front of the floor length mirror to shrug it on. It completed one of his best navy Armani suits and he looked _fantastic_. He gave the lapels a little tug and adjusted his cufflinks, feeling very smug indeed.

He raised a brow at his brother’s reflection in the mirror behind him.

“Why you hide our body in those shapeless jumpers, I will never know.”

Michael just kept smirking, as though he were in on a secret he wasn’t sharing.

“Keep laughing, brother,” he sneered, “your vanity will be the least of your concerns by the end of the night.”

Lucifer watched a muscle jump in his reflection’s jaw. His patience already on the edge, he turned around to face his brother.

“Alright, out with it,” he snapped, “I’m not playing any of your stupid games. Just tell me what you want.”

Michael clasped his hands behind his back, his head cocking to the side.

“I wanted to see your face when I told you what I did.”

“How wonderfully vague,” Lucifer bit out sarcastically. 

Michael grinned. When he spoke, his voice was lighter.

“I hear your little Detective had an accident.”

Lucifer’s expression turned dark, dangerous.

“Don’t talk about her,” he ordered lowly.

His brother laughed and lifted his hands in mock surrender.

“Can I talk _to_ her?” he asked flippantly, “because I already have.”

The room suddenly felt too hot, suffocating.

“What?”

“Your forensic scientist friend told me _all_ about the accident,” he drawled, his tone casual, before he rolled his eyes and that tone turned mocking, “talkative one, isn’t she, your _Miss Lopez_? Anyway, she went on and on and on, until I discovered the poor Detective was suffering from some memory loss. I thought it my duty to fill in some gaps, the ones I’m sure you left wide open.”

Lucifer’s fingers twitched at his sides, his top lip curling.

“What did you tell her?”

“Oh, only that she’s a gift from God.”

Lucifer’s eyes fell shut, a nauseating wave of de ja vu sweeping over him.

“Why would you do that?”

“It’s quite simple really, brother,” Michael shrugged, “I promised you I’d destroy your life. Chloe was already so fragile, the poor thing, I do believe this tipped her over the edge.”

He took a step forward, red flashing across his irises. 

Michael, the perpetual coward, took a step back.

“Don’t you have a party to attend?” he tried quickly.

Lucifer growled.

He did.

They were holding a sting at Lux, a party where the Ricci brothers would be in attendance. Evidence they had compiled in Vegas and brought home now pointed to Enzo, the eldest. They had a theory that he only planned to scare their victim into paying the money she owed, her debt, but had gone too far and killed her instead. They planned to take him out tonight, but they needed a confession first.

The detective was bound to be here already.

He barged past Michael, being sure to catch his bad shoulder. The angel flinched as he was forcibly moved, his other hand coming to rub at the eons-old injury.

“Get out of my sight, Michael,” Lucifer seethed and rushed to the elevator, his brother’s smirking face disappearing behind the closing doors.  
  


* * *

  
The party was in full swing downstairs.

He gratefully took a glass of whiskey from Maze at the bar, giving her a nod of acknowledgement. As the music pulsed, the atmosphere thick and heady, his eyes scanned the room for the Detective.

She was speaking to Enzo Ricci, her mouth curved into an easy smile. As though by some sort of magnetic force, she turned and found his gaze. She held it for a beat, her expression turning flat, before she turned back to Ricci.

A litany of curse words seared through his brain. He was going to _destroy_ his twin. Deep down, he knew he should have told her. Especially given how she had struggled with it last time and how wary she was of being lying to in her condition.

He knew by now omitting the truth was the same thing.

He rolled his shoulders, downed the whiskey in one and hissed at the pleasant burn. He took a step forward, literally _growling_ in frustration when Dan appeared in-front of him.

“What do you want?” he snapped.

The detective looked sheepish, uncomfortable.

“I wanted to apologise,” he said quietly, “you were right — what I was doing was wrong.”

Lucifer arched a brow, a little surprised. He turned slightly to look at Maze, silently communicating with her, taking advantage of the kind of easy closeness that came from centuries of knowing each other. She answered by silently sliding two fresh glasses of bourbon across the bar.

Dan took one gratefully. Lucifer gleefully noticed how his hands trembled as he drank.

“What’s brought this little revelation on, then?”

Dan sighed, looking tired and sad and more than a little tortured.

“I spent years regretting what I’d done — that day at Palmetto, sure, but lying to Chloe more. I lost her and that was… _awful_ , but it was what I deserved. Then I spent years trying to make amends, trying to become a good man. Chloe and I had a good friendship. For a while, _we_ had a good friendship. Or a mutual understanding, at least.”

“So why try to take advantage of her?” Lucifer asked, not particularly moved by his speech.

Maybe at a different time, under different circumstances, he could find it in himself to admit that Dan’s betrayal had actually _hurt_ him. He could admit he _had_ hesitantly considered him a friend. But then Charlotte Richards happened, and _Michael_ happened, he got to him the way he got to the Detective, and it all turned to shit.

“I lost sight of it, of _everything_ ,” Dan shrugged defeatedly, “I’d lost her and I’d lost Charlotte and I was alone. I thought I could rewrite history, that things would change, but then I told her the truth and that _look_ in her eye… well, that hadn’t changed. She was as hurt and betrayed as the first time I’d told her. I realised I was just hurting her all over again — lying to her. I realised we _aren’t_ those people anymore. I mean, Trixie _misses_ you. She’s always asking about you, why you’re not around as much. It made me realise Chloe has moved on and actually _,_ so have I. I was stuck in an old version of ourselves.”

He supposed he could relate to that.

“So what now?” he asked because while he understood _facets_ of his little speech, it didn’t change the facts.

“Now…” Dan started, his voice a little more determined, “I just have to focus on showing her — and _you_ — how sorry I am. I need to make this right, Lucifer.”

Lucifer’s mouth twitched but it wasn’t quite a smile. He could relate to that, too.

“So…” Dan tried a tetchy, uneven smile; it looked more like a grimace, “we good?”

Lucifer sighed, forcing a calm expression on his face as he clasped a hand on Dan’s shoulder.

The Detective’s expression lit up hopefully — and then Lucifer punched him square in the face.

He went down with a grunt, the sound joining the shocked gasps and murmurs around them. 

Lucifer straightened, rolled his shoulders and gave his lapels a casual tug.

“Now we’re good.”  
  


* * *

  
After brushing off more than one conversation as he made his way through the crowd, Lucifer finally stood in-front of the Detective.

“Not now, Lucifer,” she muttered tiredly.

Having overheard, Luca Ricci gave a hearty laugh.

“Lover’s tiff?” he asked, amused.

Lucifer was suffering from such a case of mindless tunnel vision that he had momentarily forgotten they were supposed to be a married couple. His mouth curved into that famous crooked grin as he slipped an arm around the Detective’s waist. He felt her stiffen.

“Nothing a dance can’t solve,” he crooned, “shall we, darling?”

Chloe’s expression was flat before it brightened into a fake smile.

“If you say so, _darling_.”

As the gangster laughed and grabbed a woman of his own to dance with, Lucifer led her to Lux’s dancefloor. There was already a soft, slow song playing, so he wound his arm around her waist and pulled her into his body.

Then, inexplicably, the song shifted and changed, melting into the first notes of _Only You_ by _Kazoo._

His brow arched in surprise, his eyes darting to the bar, but Maze and Detective Douche were chatting away, clueless. He couldn’t remember telling anyone about that night, all that _highschool poppycock_ and the way they had danced, and his eyes drifted suspiciously to the sky.

 _Mysterious ways indeed,_ he thought wryly.

The Detective was tense in his arms.

“We’ve danced to this before, haven’t we?” she asked quietly.

He felt the words in his chest, a dull sort of ache.

“Yes, Detective,” he said, “we have.”

She nodded but looked numb, empty, like she had nothing left.

“Detective, what my brother said—”

Her eyes flashed to his, vacant and hollow.

“—I don’t want to talk about it,” she insisted, her hand warm in his and it was just like before, only it _wasn’t_ , “you lied to me… Dan lied to me… and I’m _tired._ ”

“I never lied to you,” he insisted fiercely.

“No, you just conveniently left out parts of the story,” she fired back, using the exact words he had used about Dan, “parts of my history, _our_ history. The fact that I’m not even a person, I’m just a _thing_ made for you.”

“That’s not—” he shook his head, clenching his jaw, “—it’s more _complicated_ than that.”

“What’s complicated?” she shrugged emptily, “the way I feel about you, how strong it is despite barely knowing you, that kiss, the fact that I saw only your face when I died and how easily I accepted who you are… none of it is real. I was _made_ to feel that way.”

He closed his eyes, the words hurting.

“No, it’s not—it’s not like that. I just didn’t want to overwhelm you. Your feelings _are_ real. It’s about wanting—no, _choosing_ —” he struggled over the words, trying to remember exactly how the Detective had explained it, “—choosing to be vulnerable. You chose to be vulnerable with me because you’re the only one who makes _me_ vulnerable, I only bleed when I’m around you—”

“Wait, what?” her brows furrowed, confused, “you didn’t think to mention that either?”

He closed his eyes. This was all wrong. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

“I’m not explaining it right,” he muttered, “the Detective struggled with it too at first, but then she realised—”

“—well I’m not her!”

She raised her voice, stepping back from him. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, tears shining behind her eyes, and she was wearing pink just like the last time they danced, only it was _nothing_ like the last time they danced.

She wasn’t looking at him with shy adoration, excitement and anticipation thrumming between them, their relationship a flower in bloom.

She looked upset and confused and a sudden realisation hit him square in the chest.

This thing between them… it was hurting her.

He had been so determined to win her back, so focused on _his_ pain and loss, he hadn’t allowed himself to see that.

She screwed her eyes shut and frantically swiped away the tear the rolled down her flushed cheek.

“Lucifer, this is just… it’s too much.”

She held his gaze for a beat before she gently shook her head and pushed past him, distraught.  
  


* * *

  
“Couldn’t help but notice that argument with your ladylove.”

Lucifer arched a brow as Enzo Ricci slid onto the barstool next to him. His eyes slid imperceptibly to the Detective as she pretended to talk to Ella by the staircase. She gave him a small, impassive nod and lifted her hand to her face under the guise of fixing her hair, but really to flick on the earpiece underneath it.

“Things did get a bit heated, yes,” Lucifer muttered, cursing his twin, Daniel and himself in equal measures.

Enzo sighed as Maze slid a beer towards him.

“Can’t help who we love, huh?”

A scoff rolled from Lucifer’s chest.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

“Don’t have a woman myself,” Enzo quipped, taking a sip of beer and licking the froth from his top lip, “but my brother gives me enough grief for five.”

Lucifer hummed, his interest piqued.

“Trust me, I can relate.”

Enzo laughed.

“The things we do for family, huh.”

His tone was wistful, a little deep, and Lucifer decided to push it.

“Tell me about it,” he crooned, turning on the voice he used to charm, “I can’t even tell you the messes I’ve cleaned up for my brothers.”

Enzo snorted.

“Now _I_ can relate to _that_.”

“Really?” Lucifer lowered his voice, leaning in conspiratorially, “you know, I hate to brag, but I’m quite a big name in LA, just as you are in Vegas. I hold a lot of power, a lot of influence.”

“Oh, I know,” Enzo agreed heartily, “I haven’t forgotten.”

“So you know I grant favours…” he murmured, the air thick with implication, “if you need help, if you need me to… make something disappear, I can do that.”

Enzo’s eyes flashed in interest and Lucifer knew he almost had him. He was falling into the intricate web he was weaving.

“So you could cover something up… a crime, perhaps?” he asked hesitantly before he quickly added, “theoretically speaking, of course.”

Lucifer grinned, charming and wide, but the earpiece and wire he wore needed more the implication.

“For a price,” he purred, “ _theoretically speaking_.”

Enzo cleared his throat, adjusting his collar slightly, before he leaned in closer. Lucifer could feel the heat of the Detective’s eyes burning into his back.

“I do have a mess that needs cleaning up. It’s only a matter of time before the police are on my back.”

“Really?” Lucifer rumbled, feigning surprise, “how can I help?”

“There was a woman…” he started, his eyes quickly darting around as his voice remained quiet, “she got herself mixed up in our business, owed us a lot of money. And Luca… he got himself involved as well, despite her being married. It all went sour, she started getting desperate, threatening us, threatening to go to the police…”

Lucifer listened, taking in the new information of a sexual relationship between the victim and the younger brother. They were gangsters, with their fingers in more than one illegal pie, and he supposed the threat of the police would be enough to kill.

“Accidents happen,” he encouraged with a little shrug, even as the words tasted sour on his tongue, “sounds to me like you did what you had to do.”

“Not me,” Enzo whispered, “Luca.”

Lucifer paused.

“Luca did it,” he clarified, “he was in a rage. I couldn’t stop him.”

Lucifer shifted in his seat slightly, enough so he could see the Detective who was approaching them slowly.

“And you covered it up.”

Enzo shrugged, helpless.

“It’s family,” was all he said.

Lucifer was unmoved, a girl had been murdered after-all, and he waited until Chloe was directly behind them, her handcuffs and gun ready, before he touched his ear and said—

“Did you get all that, Detective?”

Enzo’s eyes widened. Before he could run, the Detective was twisting his arm behind his back and leading him away. On the other side of the bar, Dan had a snarling Luca Ricci in a death-grip, also leading him out of the club.

In many ways, it had been a successful evening, but when the Detective glanced at him again with those empty eyes, the victory felt hollow.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: for mentions of dementia. Please be aware if that topic is sensitive to you, would hate to upset someone!

Lucifer flinched as his phone rang, shrill and far too loud.

He was hungover which, considering how much alcohol he needed to get drunk, was quite the feat.

He picked the phone up and answered without looking at who was calling.

“Hey,” the voice on the other end said.

An irritated growl rumbled from his chest.

“What do you want, Douche?” he snapped, “I’m right in the middle of breakfast.”

His eyes slid to the whiskey glass and line of white powder laid out on his piano.

Dan sighed through the receiver.

“I guess I deserve that,” he muttered, “look, I know things have been tense between you and Chloe recently.”

“What could you possibly know about that?”

“I know she’s miserable,” he fired back, “she’s wandering around the precinct like a ghost. I know she misses you, even if she doesn’t understand why. _And_ I know she’s going to see Lily’s mom today, to tell her they’ve caught her daughter’s murderer.”

Lucifer’s brows pulled into a frown.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because she told Ella, who told me, that she wants you to be there,” he said, “this was as much your case as hers. She just doesn’t know how to tell you — so _I’m_ telling you. She’s meeting Lily’s mother at St John of God Retirement & Care Center, 2468 St Andrews Place.”

Lucifer arched a brow.

“A nursing home?”

“Yeah, apparently Lily’s dad lives there. He has early onset dementia.”

Lucifer felt a wave of sympathy for the man. These humans truly had made him soft. He cleared his throat and tried to think of what to say.

Dan was speaking again before he could come up with anything.

“Look, I know this doesn’t mean… well, it doesn’t mean _shit_ really,” he huffed humourlessly, “but I want to help. Hopefully this will give you both a chance to talk things out.”

“Maybe it will,” Lucifer murmured and even though it killed him a little to say it, he added, “thank you, Daniel.”

He left the whiskey and white powder on the piano and grabbed his jacket instead — and before he left, he opened his safe and slipped the Detective’s necklace into his breast pocket.  
  


* * *

  
He found the Detective in the parking lot, getting ready to leave.

“I hear you’re giving Lily’s parents the news,” he said casually, leaning against his Corvette, “I would like to join, if that’s alright.”

He watched the movement of her throat as she swallowed, the guarded expression that she kept fixed on her face like a mask.

She nodded in agreement, her jaw set, because no matter what was going on between them, this _had_ been his case too.

“Of course,” she murmured. He noticed how tightly she was clenching her car keys.

He waved a hand to his car.

“Shall we?” he offered.

She hesitated for a moment before she sighed, moving over to the passenger side. He smiled triumphantly and slid into the driver’s seat, turning the key in the ignition. The engine rumbled smoothly to life underneath them.

“It’s St John of God Retirement and Care Centre, 24—”

“—68 Andrews Place, I know.”

She arched a brow as he put the car into reverse and peeled out of the lot.

“Detective Douche called me,” he clarified.

She huffed, turning her face and glaring out of the window.

“Still in your bad books, I see.”

“I don’t like being lied to,” she said in response, her tone flat.

He didn’t want to get into it again, didn’t want to anger her, and he definitely wasn’t going to defend Daniel, so he just stayed quiet as he gracefully weaved in-between cars.

Thirty minutes later, the tension still thick between them, they were breaking the news to Lily’s mother.

The woman looked to be in her fifties, strands of silver in her blonde hair. She cried when they told her and Lucifer stood back, leaning against the wall, while the Detective embraced her.

“Thank you,” she whispered into Chloe’s hair. The Detective looked a little stiff before she returned the embrace, gently patting her back.

The woman, Ruth, turned to her husband, Lily’s father. He was sitting in what looked like a large, comfortable chair, the sort of chair people sat in day and day out. He was also in his fifties, but suffering from this awful disease, and he looked confused as his wife took his hand.

“Did you hear that, Jimmy?” she whispered tearfully, “they caught him. They caught the son of a bitch who hurt our baby.”

It was a euphemism, as though she still couldn’t bear to say the words out loud, and it left Lucifer cold.

Jimmy blinked, his heavy brows furrowing in confusion.

Ruth was undeterred, rifling in her purse to pull out a photograph. Lucifer recognised the girl as a teenaged Lily, wearing a bright smile full of possibilities, and just like that, that ache in his chest was back.

These humans… they were so _mortal._ They bled and suffered and died _._ One day, Lily was that girl in the picture, bright eyed and excited, and the next she was just… _gone_ … and what was the point?

Now all that was left was this poor, grieving mother as she showed the picture to someone else she’d loved and lost.

Jimmy blinked at the photograph and then suddenly, a flash of recognition passed through his eyes.

Lucifer didn’t _understand._

“Oh yes,” Jimmy whispered heavily, tears shining behind his eyes, “my baby…”

The Detective smiled, but it was a trembling sort of smile, as though she were holding back tears of her own.

Ruth choked a laugh at the fact that he’d remembered and threw her arms around his neck. They held onto each other, clinging desperately, the photograph of their daughter between them.

Lucifer’s eyes slid to the Detective, taking in her reaction.

She still looked teary, upset, as she tried not to look at him. She was so stubborn and so infuriating and she was right here, but he _missed_ her.

In this sick, manic way, he missed her.

Her smile and her hands and the way she rolled her eyes when she was annoyed. He missed her blaring cheesy 90’s jams through his sound system just to irritate him and helping her spawn write history reports about events where he was literally present. He missed messing around with her and making her laugh because all he seemed to do these days was hurt her. He missed the way she called him out on the important things but let the other stuff slide and he missed letting her shave his face as she sat on the bathroom counter and he stood between her legs, but most of all, he missed the way she loved him — because he loved her.

Unwaveringly, devastatingly, _still_.

If all else was lost, that would always remain.

“Lily?” Jimmy suddenly repeated, that confused expression slipping back onto his face, “where is Lily?”

The Detective’s smile faltered, disappointed, but Ruth remained obstinately positive.

“She’s not here, darling,” she murmured, sweeping some hair away from his forehead.

“How do you do that?” Lucifer suddenly blurted out.

Both women’s eyes snapped to him.

“Do what?” Ruth asked kindly.

“Stay so positive,” he frowned, “he doesn’t remember you.”

“Lucifer!” the Detective hissed under her breath, her eyes wide in warning — but he wasn’t trying to be rude or upset the woman, he was trying to _understand_.

Ruth didn’t seem offended.

“Sometimes he does,” she shrugged, her hand gently wrapped around his own, “he has bad days, that’s for sure, but he also has good ones — days where I see flickers of _my_ Jimmy. I guess I live for those days.”

“But what if one day he _never_ remembers you?” Lucifer asked, a rock in the pit of his stomach, the words pressing too close, “and you’re here and you remember _everything_ , but he’s just… gone?”

He could feel the burn of the Detective’s eyes on him but he couldn’t look at her.

He felt frantic, _devastated_ , and for the first time since he lost her, he felt like giving up.

“I’ll still be here,” Ruth shrugged again, as though she didn’t have a choice, “I’ll adjust because I love him and I don’t have a choice in that. I’ve loved him for as long as I can remember.”

“But doesn’t it hurt you?” Lucifer asked, an ache in his chest, because it was hurting _him_ — so much.

“Of course it does, son,” Ruth admitted, “but that’s why when he was diagnosed, when we knew what was coming, we said everything we needed to say. I told him I was terrified, that I didn’t think I could do this without him. He told me that I could, that I was the strongest woman he’d ever met. He thanked me for Lily and our other children and I thanked him for the life he gave us. And I told him… I told him that he was the love of my life. We just got it all out — because you have to say these things while you can.”

Lucifer listened intently, the words penetrating deep inside him. Sometimes he was sure his father manipulated their cases, drawing parallels to whatever existential crisis he was having at that moment. He didn’t like the thought, liked to think he had more control than that, but he couldn’t deny the similarities. 

He saw himself in Ruth, desperately in love and clinging to a memory.

And when they were standing by his car again, ready to return to the precinct, the air was thick with implication.

“She really loves him, doesn’t she?” the Detective asked quietly.

“Yes,” Lucifer whispered, holding her gaze significantly, “she does.”  
  


* * *

  
The Corvette rumbled to a stop in the precinct parking lot, plummeting them into a tension-filled silence.

It felt momentous, like everything had been leading up to this moment, so many things unspoken between them. Ruth’s words seared at the front of his mind and he knew he had some things he needed to say.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out her necklace.

He let the chain slip between his fingers, his mind aching from the memory.

“Detective,” he turned to her, “I want you to have this.”

Her eyes flickered to his hands, a question written on her expression.

“I gave you this for your birthday a few years back,” he started, his thumb rubbing over the copper bullet, “early on in our partnership, you shot me to prove I was the devil. It was the first time I’d bled, the first time I was vulnerable, and it was _you_ who made me feel that way. I don’t know, I suppose it’s symbolic of a lot of things.”

She listened silently and she didn’t look angry anymore — just exhausted.

“Whatever happens between us,” he continued, “the way you made me feel back then… it was _real_ … and this is yours. I’d like you to have it.”

She swallowed heavily and nodded. She held her hand out, their fingertips brushing hot and electric as he placed it in her palm and gently closed her fingers around it.

She drew her hand back, placing it in her lap, and he suddenly knew what he had to say.

He held her gaze, an ache in his chest.

“I love you, Chloe,” he said heavily, “I should have said it before.”

Her chest moved but she didn’t make a sound, her eyes teary and anchored on him. It looked like it hurt to breathe.

“Lucifer…” her voice sounded thick with tears; it took her two tries to get the word out, “I’m not saying _never_.”

“I know,” he murmured, a weight lifted off his chest, “but I was reminded today that love means putting someone else first. It’s what you’ve always done for me. I told you, you were selfless to a nauseating degree and that was how you loved me. I’ve been so focused on myself that I haven’t stopped to think about how hard this must be for you. I said I’d give you time but I’ve also been over your shoulder, demanding you remember. You might _never_ remember and that’s… _fine._ I’ll still be here. But if what you need is for me to give you space, then I’m going to do that.”

He would leave her alone completely, if that was what she wanted. Or he would be her partner and her friend. There would never be anyone else for him, so he would live for that friendship, just as Ruth lived for the good days.

“It might be years, if ever," she said.

He shrugged.

“I’m a patient man. Perks of immortality.”

“I’m sorry,” she said then, a sob catching in her throat, “I’m sorry she’s gone. I’m sorry I can’t be her.”

He shook his head, gently reaching out to cup her cheek. He wiped away a tear with his thumb. Her skin was warm, half from the balmy Californian air as the sun began to set, and half from the flush painted high on her cheekbones. 

“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change the fact that _you,_ Detective…” he paused, his lips twitching into a soft, bittersweet smile, “you will _always_ be the love of my life.”

She exhaled shakily, her eyelids fluttering shut, and he was struck by the notion that Ruth was right. 

You have to say these things while you still can.  
  


* * *

  
Lucifer had meant it.

He was fully prepared to give the Detective space.

But perhaps it wasn’t _space_ that she needed, because that very same night, his elevator doors rasped open and _there she was_ , framed in soft yellow light and clutching the necklace in her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just had to add that bit at the end as I know we've been in angst city these past two chapters haha. Trust me the last one is much fluffier :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And let the fluff commence! Thank you everybody for your support, I've loved writing this story and am sad to see it come to an end!

Lucifer was staring.

He leaned forward, the sudden movement causing some whiskey to spill over the side of his glass. It splashed onto the tan sofa, probably staining the expensive Italian leather. Under any other circumstances, he would have raged at it, jumping up and muttering curses under his breath as he grabbed a wet cloth.

Now, he couldn’t have cared less — because the Detective was _here._

She was framed in the yellow glow of his elevator lights, clutching the necklace he’d given her and wearing an expression he couldn’t read.

He stood, placing the now half-empty glass of whiskey onto the piano as he made his way over to her.

She didn’t speak, even as she stepped out of the elevator and the doors slowly rasped closed behind her.

“Detective,” he inflected, flattening a hand on the top of the piano and resting against it, “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

She nodded, taking a step towards him.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said quietly, “I didn’t like how we left things.”

He supposed he understood that. She was still a detective, after-all, and she wouldn’t rest until she had all the answers.

“I told you before, the last thing I ever want to do is hurt you,” he said, “so just tell me what you need.”

She cocked her head to the side, as though considering it, and the chain slipped between her fingers again.

“I need you to tell me why you gave me this.”

He arched a brow, his dark eyes flickering to the necklace.

“I told you already.”

“Humour me.”

He sighed, rubbing an anxious hand along his jaw.

“Because it’s yours.”

She was still staring at him, like she wanted more, like she expected things he wasn’t sure he had left.

He gave a sigh of defeat and carried on, nonetheless.

“It will _always_ be yours, just as I will be,” he shrugged, “whether you find your way back to me or not, I know that what we had was real. I don’t know what my father’s playing at, but he can’t take that away at least. Before that bullet hit me, I was impenetrable. Literally and figuratively. I was existing, but I wasn’t really alive. Then you came along and everything changed. So I want you to have it, that bullet, because of everything it represents and everything you gave me.”

She listened silently, still toying the chain between her fingers.

“But you’re giving up on me,” she whispered.

“No, darling,” he shook his head gently, “I’m not. I’ve just come to the realisation that my stubborn insistence on winning you back might not be what _you_ want. I’m trying my hardest to put you first, because I care about your feelings more than mine. So if what you need is for me to let go, then I will.”

She was still staring at him, her expression unreadable, and he pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.

When he returned his hand to his side, his eyes were dark and a little wild.

“Look Detective, you don’t understand because you’re not in love,” his voice was matter of fact, but not unkind, “ _my_ Detective would have understood. She loved so fiercely, but as you so often like to remind me, you’re not her. She’s gone.”

His voice was flat, empty, and suddenly the air shifted and changed.

She was still staring at him, wide eyed and teary, only now she was wearing a smile he hadn’t seen for months.

“No,” she whispered, “she’s not.”

He stiffened, confused — and then she closed the gap between them and threw her arms around his neck.

He remained still, shocked, his arms anchored to his sides.

“It’s me,” his eyes fell shut, pained, as she whispered, “I’m _me._ Put your arms around me, Lucifer.”

He obeyed like the slave he was to her affection, even as he couldn’t make sense of it, couldn’t understand what this _meant._ He faltered for a second more before his arms were snaking around her waist. He angled his face to breathe her in, her hair like spun silk. His eyes screwed shut tighter, his hold on her growing tighter too, and she was so real and so alive and so _his_.

 _Finally_.

She drew back but stayed cradled in his arms, her hands cupping his face.

His eyes and throat burned at the look on her face. It was the look he had been yearning for since that morning in bed, before this nightmare began. It was adoration and awe, desire but also unwavering, unconditional love.

No-one had ever looked at him that way.

No-one before, no-one since.

Her eyes flickered over his face, drinking him in.

“I feel like I haven’t seen you in months,” she sobbed. 

He let out a harsh breath, his eyes falling shut again as her fingertips trailed over his face. She traced the elegant slope of his nose, made his lips part, felt the grit of his stubble and the sharp line of his jaw. She was learning him again.

“Detective…” he bit out, tense and confused, “I don’t—”

She interrupted his question before he could ask it.

“Today I went home and I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said in the car. I was so confused and so _devastated_ and I knew I wanted you but I couldn’t understand how. I couldn’t get to it. Then I was just standing in the kitchen, staring at that bullet, and there was this bright rush of white. It was like my mind just flooded — and it came back all at once.”

He listened, his fingers biting at her waist, pulling her closer.

“So I came here and I asked you why you gave me this,” she referenced the necklace, which he then noticed was interwoven between her fingers, the chain softly rubbing against his stubble, “I needed to hear it. I needed to hear that you were willing to let me go — because I think that’s what brought me back.”

He blinked, speechless for once in his very long life.

“I don’t understand,” he said helplessly.

“I don’t either, but I know that what you said in the car… you had no ulterior motive. You said I had loved you in a way that was selfless, but that’s how you love me too.”

His eyes shone with incredulity.

“If Amenadiel were here, he’d say that Dad was trying to make me realise that. _Testing_ me.”

“Maybe he’d be right,” she whispered tearfully, “you asked Him to bring me back, didn’t you?”

He nodded, turning his face into her hand to place a soft kiss on her palm.

“I didn’t want to be without you,” he said sadly, “I didn’t know how.”

“Kiss me,” she whispered then, the request catching on a sob.

He wrapped her up in his arms and gently touched his lips to hers.

“No,” she breathed desperately, “kiss me properly, like I’m _me._ ”

A thick growl rumbled from his chest as he captured her mouth in a fierce kiss. It was desperate, all tongues, teeth, heat and passion, and she rose up on her tiptoes to better return it. His mouth slanted over hers, his tongue licking inside the hot cavern of her mouth. He hadn’t kissed her like this in what felt like years, but his mouth and hands moved through instinct, like muscle memory. Lust snapped at his heels with every swipe of her tongue, shooting straight to his groin, because _well_ , that had been a while too.

She broke the kiss, her breath catching in her throat, and breathed another request.

“Now tell me you love me, because I’ve never heard that before.”

He knew what she meant, that she hadn’t heard it while she was _her,_ and this time, there was no hesitation at all. It was the easiest favour he had ever granted.

“I love you,” he rasped and just like that, she was crying again, and his own eyes were burning, “I am so in love with you.”

She sighed softly, her arms looping around his neck. She kissed him for a few moments before she dragged her mouth to his cheek, his jaw, peppering kisses everywhere she could find.

When she pulled back, her eyes were soft, concerned.

“Was it really awful for you?” she whispered.

He didn’t see the point in lying, even if he could.

“Yes.”

Her brows furrowed, discontent.

“God,” she sighed, rolling her eyes at the way his mouth pinched. The expression melted into a grin; he was willing to let that one slide, “you watched me _die._ I treated you like a stranger. If that were me… Lucifer, if I lost you… I can’t even imagine. I mean, how did you _survive_ that?”

His mouth twitched but it wasn’t quite a smile.

“Sheer determination, darling, and a healthy dose of denial.”

She smiled, something sad and melancholy.

“You knew I’d come back to you.”

“Yes,” he answered simply — because his faith in them was, and always would be, unwavering.

“Because we’re meant to be together.”

His smile was genuine this time. “Yes.”

She gingerly touched her fingers to his cheek again before she dangled the necklace in-front of her chest. She turned around and swept her hair over one shoulder, gesturing for him to fasten the clasp.

He did, placing it back where it belonged.

His hands on her shoulders, he then skimmed his mouth over her neck. He felt the pleased hum that vibrated through her body, her skin flush and warm under his lips. He felt her body come to life, the tell-tale sparks of arousal beginning to take shape, and his mouth curved into a smirk against her neck.

His own arousal spiked hot in his veins, demanding and months overdue.

He trailed his mouth up to her ear.

“I can’t promise it’ll be gentle,” he husked hotly.

He felt the shiver that traced up her spine — and then she was turning in his arms and _attacking_ him.

She swallowed his grunt of surprise as he kissed her back with equal fervour. They came together with all the desperation and desire of their first time, back when they finally stopped fighting this. It was new and somehow all too familiar. His tongue sought hers and wrapped around it. He made a little noise from the back of his throat that must have stirred her on, because she jumped up. He caught her easily, her long legs wrapping around his waist.

“Bedroom,” she gasped when she broke away from his mouth. Her hips rolled impatiently, her mouth tracing the sharp line of his jaw. He walked them through the penthouse until her back hit his Assyrian stone wall.

It was as close to her request as they could get, their hands impatiently tugging at clothes. One of her legs fell from his waist, her thighs splaying open. He slipped his own thigh between them, gently grinding it against her. She gasped sharply, her pupils blown wide with desire, as he slid the hard muscle against her. He could feel her heat, sweet and heady, soaking into the fabric of his trousers as she chased her pleasure.

He was without his waistcoat so she hastily unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it off his shoulders, her hands reacquainting themselves with his muscled chest. One of his hands curled around the back of her thigh, hitching it higher on his hip, as she arched against him. He planted hot, open mouthed kisses down the length of her neck, sucking a bloom into her collarbone. Her breath rolled from her chest in little pants as her hands slipped between them to unbuckle his belt.

They were too far gone to bother with the rest of their clothes, or to walk the dozen steps to the bed. Their mouths brushed, sliding hotly but not quite connecting, as she helped him pool her dress up to her waist. Then he held her heated gaze, the air thick and hot between them, as he pushed her damp underwear to the side and slid inside her.

She gasped at the contact as he pulled out and pushed back in, where he belonged… but didn’t necessarily _fit_ right now because it had been months. She felt full and warm and tight, she felt like home, and in an ideal world, when he finally got her back, it wouldn’t be with a quick fuck against the wall.

He always imagined taking his time with her, drawing out her pleasure, using every trick he had learned in his very long, very extensive, life to bring her to peak after peak.

But all that would come later, he told himself, as he lost himself in her heat, her love.

He wanted — _needed_ — her in a way that was completely desperate, frantic.

She matched his intensity, tugging his hair and making him hiss, clenching around him and making him groan.

He kissed her, deep and messy, and whispered—

“I missed you so much.”

—against her lips.

She choked on a sob, half emotion, half pleasure, and kissed him again.

Everything he couldn’t bring himself to say poured out now — all the anger, the hurt, the distance and the pain of missing her. It mixed with the sheer relief that she was back, a love that was so powerful, it was almost painful, and the combination of it all left him exhausted.

“I love you,” she breathed in reply.

Maybe it was strange, that after centuries of the most scandalous sex, the dirtiest things imaginable whispered into his ears, _those_ words were what sent him tumbling into an orgasm. His skilful fingers between her legs, playing her like his piano, sent her flying at the same time, volcanic pleasure blasting through them both, eclipsing anything they ever thought was pleasure in the past.

She shivered in the afterglow, wrapping her fingers in his hair and holding him to her neck as his hips pumped once, twice, three times more before he growled into her skin and slowly pulled away.

“No,” she moaned, clinging to him, “stay.”

He released a husky chuckle, capturing her lips in a gentle, tired kiss.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised — because this was home.  
  


* * *

  
Two hours later, Lucifer had finally made good on his promise to reduce her to a quivering mess.

His head was currently between her legs, the grit of his stubble sliding against her flushed inner thigh. He’d already made her peak this way twice but it was one of the things he’d missed the most, the way she shuddered, the way she tasted, the way her thighs trembled as she tugged on his hair and made him growl.

She laughed and pushed his head away, buzzing from oversensitivity.

“Lucifer, I _can’t_ ,” she gasped, her hips undulating against the bed, “I’m _spent._ ”

He smirked against her thigh, letting her go with a contented hum.

He slid back up the bed, coming to lay next to her.

He propped himself up on one elbow, his dark eyes sweeping over her. He didn’t want to ruin her mood, to see that blissed out expression melt away, but he needed to know too—

“Was it really awful for _you?_ ”

She blinked once, twice, and then sighed.

“It was… strange,” she settled on eventually, “I was jealous of myself.”

He arched a brow and waited for her to continue.

“I hated being so powerless, so weak,” her mouth pinched in distaste and he wanted to tell her she _wasn’t_ weak, she had nothing to be embarrassed about, but this was about _her_ feelings and they were valid, regardless of whether he agreed or not, “ever since Hot Tub High School, I’ve had this _need_ to be in control, to control my destiny and my future and what I did with it. To have all that ripped away… it was jarring to say the least.”

He hated hearing about her upset but he needed to know something else.

“Detective Douche… was he good to you, at least?”

The words felt like razor blades, pushed out between gritted teeth, and he tried to keep his anger from flaring.

She hummed in contemplation.

“I’m impressed you let him get away with just a punch.”

“Yes,” he sniffed proudly, “I’m quite the grown up these days.”

She tried, and failed, to conceal a smirk.

“He shouldn’t have lied,” she said, “he shouldn’t have done what he did — but he’s not a bad man, you know that. I think we were all a little lost. Yes, he was good to me, and I had Trixie, so I was _content_. But something was missing in a way it hadn’t been before. It was as though… because I’d had you, even if I couldn’t remember, I couldn’t truly be _happy_ again without you _._ ”

He smiled gently, knowing exactly how she felt.

“You said you were jealous of yourself,” he asked, “what do you mean?”

“This Chloe… the one I wasn’t… it was so clear how much she loved you and how much you loved her. _Everyone_ said so — even my _kid._ You confused me and frustrated me and pushed my buttons like no-one ever had. The way I felt about you… it was something so powerful and scary. I never felt that way with Dan, not even in the beginning. So I was jealous of her. I wanted what she had, even if I knew you could never love me the way you loved her.”

He felt the words in his chest, a tight ache, and leaned down to kiss her again.

“I love _you_ , darling,” he said — because it was so _easy_ now, “all of you. In any time, in any life, you’ll always be my Detective.”

She smiled, her eyes a little glassy.

“What you said in the car, it’s true for me too…” she started, “you're the love of my life.”

He kissed her again, feeling full and warm and complete.

And when her phone rang in the morning, alerting them to a new case, a sickening wave of de ja vu swept over him.

Only this time, as she straddled him wearing his shirt, and he danced his fingers up her thighs and husked—

"I suppose you'll have to have your wicked way with me later then, Detective.”

—she smiled and whispered, “they can wait.”


End file.
